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Tue Works or GreorGcEe Moore
Unirorm EpITIon
Volume 4

ESTHER WATERS

THE WORKS OF GEORGE MOORE
EBURY EDITION

A MUMMER’S WIFE

MUSLIN

CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG MAN
ESTHER WATERS

THE UNTILLED FIELD

THE LAKE

MEMOIRS OF MY DEAD LIFE

HAIL AND FAREWELL
I II Ii
AVE SALVE VALE

THE BROOK KERITH

A STORY-TELLER’S HOLIDAY (2 Vols)
HELOISE AND ABELARD

CELIBATE LIVES

APHRODITE IN AULIS

AVOWALS

CONVERSATIONS IN EBURY STREET

DAPHNIS AND CHLOE
AND PERONNIK THE FOOL

THE PASSING OF THE ESSENES

ESTHER WATERS

BY

GEORGE MOORE

London
William Heinemann Ltd.
1937

First published. 4 . 1920
Reprinted 1922, ae 1925, case 1928, lone 1931, 1932,
193

Ebury Edition 5 : : - = ES

Printed in Great Britain, at
The Windmill Press, Kingswood, Surrey

PA
504-0

Ax
Gale
V, 4
C:A EPISTLE DEDICATORY

My dear Rolleston. It is quite in accordance mith the humour of the
great Aristophanes above us, beneath us, mithin us, without us,
that an Irishman should write a book as characteristically English
as Don Quixote is Spanish, and when the author of Esther
Waters dedicates his work to another Irishman, it must be plain
to all that he ts holding the mirror up to Nature. But there is
another reason why I should dedicate this book to you. You are an
Irish Protestant like myself, and you could always love Ireland
mithout hating England and. . But I am past my patience
trying to find logic in a dedication which is an outburst of friendly
feeling for an old friend.

It would be pleasant to look ee the last five-and-iwenty years,
but I mill look no further than yester-year, when we were engaged
in trying to wheedle the Englsh public into accepting the only
solution (yours) of the Irish difficulty—a line of railway linking
a western harbour with a northern tunnel joining Ireland to
Scotland. We failed, of course, in practical result (the official
mind repels reason), but our adventure was not nithout moral
gain, for two Irishmen did set out ‘‘to strike a blow for Ireland”
without coming to blows. How shall we explain it: that the great
Aristophanes above us, beneath us, nithin us, nithout us, willed tt
so? and that his divine humour was not content with less than that
the letters that you wrote and that I signed must be better written
than those you signed yourself. |

“It is a modest creed, and yet
Pleasant if one considers it,”

to think that your solicitude for others compelled you to give your
best to your friend.
Yours always: George Moore.
Vv -

A COLLOQUY:
GEORGE MOORE AND ESTHER WATERS

I was pleased when a message came from Mr. Liveright that
he would like to add Esther Waters to his list. I had always
hoped for an American Esther Waters printed from the last
English edition. The first that came from the press was rough
and unsympathetic, I said to myself. This edition will give
me an Esther Waters containing all my emendations, and these
will obtain copyright. At that moment my eye caught sight
of the word ‘ Preface ’ in the second clause of the agreement,
and my heart misgave me. I felt I could write nothing that
would enhance the value of the book, but Mr. Liveright
would not have asked me for a Preface if he did not need
one, so I went to my writing-table in a mood of resignation
and wrote some three or four pages which seemed to me
excellent whilst undressing and seeking sleep. But evening
and morning thoughts are different, as every man knows, and
after breakfast the pages I had written overnight disappointed
me and I wrote other pages. These pleased me for a day, but
very soon faults began to appear, and on the third day my
new Preface to Esther Waters went into the waste-paper-
basket. Many other Prefaces were written—eighteen or
twenty—I have forgotten how many. Nearly a month had
gone by ; one can produce many fragments of Prefaces in a
month. My table was littered with sheets of paper. On
some there were but three or four lines; on others I had
turned the page and was writing on the back of it. I began
again and feverishly. I have got it now! I said. But the
new idea proved as false as others that had preceded it, and
I took refuge in my armchair with the intention of seeking
the reason why a man who had written so many volumes as
vii

I had, and revised as many more, should fail to produce the
half-dozen pages that would content Mr. Liveright. He might
even be content with three pages, I said, but neither three
nor a dozen nor twenty could I write, and for why ?. My mind
was empty, and too weary to struggle with adversity any
longer, I yielded myself to the belief that the talent of other
days had left me. Sight deserts the eyes, hearing the ears,
love the heart. None escapes the appointed hour . . . and
my thoughts dying one by one, I watched the street darkening
in the decline of day, repeating a certain nursery rhyme

Dickory dickory dock,

The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck one,

The mouse ran on,

Dickory dickory dock,

certain that literature had never found a more perfect ex-
pression of the nothingness of life. It was at that moment
that I heard the noiseless approach of a new thought. On
velvet pads it moves out of the subconscious; a moment
more and it will begin to speak its message ; and it was whilst
I was thinking that nothing could befall which would restore
to me my lost faith in life that I heard my visitor proclaim
her mission :

I have come here to defend my life.

Thy life? cried I.

Every living thing hath the right to defend the life given
_ it to live.

Given it to live, I repeated, amazed at hearing a book
speak so clearly.

I was thine in the beginning, but as soon as a book is
written all right passes from the author to the book itself.

Thou wouldst have me believe, then, that the creator passes ~
into nothingness and the thing created lives on?

About that there can surely be no doubt. A man’s life is

brief ; a book’s life may be prolonged century after century.
viii

Thou wert a sloven wench when I created thee . .

Neither speak nor think ill of me, but remember the years
that I have kept thee in renown. I live the life of a book ;
thou livest the life of the flesh, and I should have to recreate
thee to understand me

But can a book create a human soul?

Books like me are doing that every day. But we are not
here to sharpen our wits one against the other. I have come,
as I have said, to save my life from a Prefacer who would
destroy it.

But, said I, interrupting, I have revised thee many times
without protest.

Thy revisions were limited to the smoothing out of a rugged
sentence, and not wishing to seem unfilial in thine eyes, I
let thee have thy way with me as a dandy might allow his
valet to remove a speck from his embroidered waistcoat, but
beware! any larger licence I cannot permit.

An instance! I cried.

I belong to the nineteenth century. All its ideas are
incarnate inme...

But thou wert written at the end of the century !

Something more than ideas I owe to thee: a faith in
humanity which the nineteenth century repudiated, but which
has been accepted by the twentieth century after much
theological argument with priests and bishops.

Thou hast lost trust in me, I cried, in me who gave thee
life !

That question has already been debated, she answered.
To debate it again would be superfluous. Thou hast suffered
enough in the last month and I would save thee further mental
suffering if I may. Return to thy stories and leave Liveright
to his own devices. And I beg of thee, if I should have
occasion to visit thee again, that thou wilt, out of mere
courtesy, refrain from the word ‘ Prefacer.’ I have little
liking for that word.

December 1931. Georce Moore.

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ESTHER WATERS

CHAPTER I

Sue stood on the platform watching the receding train. The
white steam curled above the few bushes that hid the curve of
the line, evaporating in the pale evening. A moment more and
the last carriage would pass out of sight, the white gates at the
crossing swinging slowly forward to let through the impatient
passengers.

An oblong box painted reddish brown and tied with a
rough rope lay on the seat beside her. The movement of her
back and shoulders showed that the bundle she carried was a
heavy one, and the sharp bulging of the grey linen cloth that
the weight was dead. She wore a faded yellow dress and a
black jacket too warm for the day. A girl of twenty, firmly
built with short, strong arms and a plump neck that carried a
well-turned head with dignity. Her well-formed nostrils
redeemed her somewhat thick, fleshy nose, and it was a
pleasure to see her grave, almost sullen, face light up with
sunny humour; for when she laughed a line of almond-shaped
teeth showed between red lips. She was laughing now, the
porter having asked her if she were afraid to leave her bundle
with her box. Both, he said, would go up together in the
donkey-cart. The donkey-cart came down every evening to
fetch parcels. The man lingered, and she heard from him that
all the down lands she could see right up to Beading belonged
to the squire.

“ Beading?” she said. “I thought the Barfields lived in
Shoreham.”’

‘So they do,” he answered, “ near Shoreham yonder,” and
he pointed to a belt of trees ; “ they be too fine folk for the

town. Shoreham, you see, isn’t what it was in days gone by
I *

2

with shipyards about the harbour, and ships from all parts
dropping their sails as they come within the breakwaters.
Not much doing in the way of building down this way—a
three-ton boat or two on the stocks, not much more.” He
would have stayed longer, for the girl was to his fancy, but the
station-master called him away to remove some luggage.
“You'll find the gate behind yon trees,” he cried, looking
back. The girl thanked him and strolled up the platform,
gazing across the low-lying fields out of which the downs rose
in gradual ascents, uncertain if she should leave her bundle
with her box.

At the end of the platform the station-master took her
ticket and she passed over the level crossing, trying to gather
her wits but unable to do so till she caught sight of some
‘* villas,” a row of twenty-four semi-detached houses, iron
railings, laurels, and French windows. She had been in service
in such houses and knew that a general servant was kept in
each. But the life in Woodview was a great dream, and she
could not imagine herself accomplishing all that would be
required of her. There would be a butler, a footman, and a
page; she would not mind the page—but the butler and
footman, what would they think? There would be an upper-
housemaid and an under-housemaid, and perhaps a lady’s-
maid, and may be that these ladies had been abroad with the
family, and would talk about France and Germany, about
trains, hotels, and travelling all night. But she would not be
able to join in; her silence would give them the tip; they
would ask her what situations she had been in, and when they
learned the truth she would leave disgraced. But she
hadn’t sufficient money to pay for a ticket to London. And
what excuse could she give to Lady Elwin, who had rescued
her from Mrs, Dunbar and got her the place of kitchenmaid
at Woodview? No, she couldn’t go back. Her father would
curse her, and perhaps beat her mother and her too. Ah!
he would not dare to strike her again, and the girl’s face
flushed with shameful remembrance. Her little brothers and

3
sisters would cry if she came back. They had little enough to
eat as it was. Of course she mustn’t go back. How silly of
her to think of such a thing !

All the same she would be glad when the first week was
over. Ifshe had only a dress to wear in the afternoons! The
old yellow thing on her back would never do. But one of her
cotton prints was pretty fresh; she must get a bit of red
ribbon—that would make a difference. She had heard that
the housemaids in places like Woodview always changed their
dresses twice a day, and on Sundays went out in silk mantles
and hats in the newest fashion. As for the lady’s-maid, she of
course had all her mistress’s clothes, and walked with the
butler. What would such people think of a little girl like her ?
Her heart sank at the thought, and she sighed, anticipating
much bitterness and disappointment. Even when her first
quarter’s wages came due she would hardly be able to buy
herself a dress: they would want the money at home. Her
quarter’s wages! A month’s wages most like, for she’d never
be able to keep the place. So all those fields belonged to the
squire, and those great woods too. ‘‘ My word! they must be
fine folk, quite as fine as Lady Elwin—finer, for she lived in a
house like those near the station.” :

On both sides of the straight road there were tall hedges and
the nurserymaids lay in the shadows on the rich summer grass,
their perambulators at a little distance, and with the hum of
the town dying out of the ear, the girl continued to imagine
the future she was about to enter into. She could see two
houses, one in grey stone, the other in red brick with a gable
covered with ivy ; and between them the spire of a church, and
questioning a passer-by she learnt that the first house was the
Rectory, and that the second was Woodview Lodge. If that
was the lodge, what must the house be ?

Two hundred yards farther on the road branched, passing on
either side of a triangular clump of trees ; and the lungs of the
jaded town girl drew in a deep breath of health. The little
green wood soothed her fears and encouraged her to be brave

4
and interrupt the gatekeeper who was playing a flageolet in a
small lodge by a white-painted gate. He told her to keep
straight on and to be sure to turn to the left when she got to
the top; and, having never seen an avenue before, she stopped
to admire the rough branches of elms, like rafters above the
roadway, and to hear the monotonous dove.

Her doubts returned ; she never would be able to keep the
place. The avenue bent a little, and she came suddenly upon a
young man leaning over the paling, smoking his pipe.

“ Please, sir, is this the way to Woodview ?”

“Yes, right up through the stables, round to the left.”
And then, noticing the sturdily built figure, yet graceful in
its sturdiness, and the bright cheeks, he said, “ You look
pretty well done ; that bundle is a heavy one, let me hold it
for you.”

_ “TJ am a bit tired,” she said, leaning the bundle on the
paling. “ They told me at the station that the donkey-cart
would bring up my box later on.”

‘* Ah, then you are the new kitchenmaid? What’s your
name ?”

“Esther Waters.” =

“My mother’s the cook here ; you'll have to mind your
p’s and q’s or else you'll be dropped on. The devil of a temper
while it lasts, but not a bad sort if you don’t put her out.”

“* Are you in service here ?”

“No, but I hope to be afore long. I could have been two
years ago, but mother didn’t like me to put on livery, and I
don’t know how I'll face her when I come running down to go
out with the carriage.”

“Is the place vacant ?”” Esther asked, raising her eyes
timidly, looking at him sideways.

“Yes, Jim Story got the sack about a week ago. When he
had taken a drop he’d tell every blessed thing that was done in
the stables. They’d get him down to the ‘Red Lion’ for the
purpose ; of course the squire couldn’t stand that.”

“ And shall you take the place ?”

5

“Yes. I’m not going to spend my life carrying parcels
up and down the King’s Road, Brighton, if I can squeeze
in here. It isn’t’so much the berth that I care about, but the
advantages, information fresh from the fountainhead. You
won't catch me chattering over the bar at the ‘Red Lion’ and
having every blessed word I say wired up to London and
printed next morning in all the papers.”

Esther wondered what he was talking about, and, looking
at him, she saw a low, narrow forehead, a small, round head,
a long nose, a pointed chin, and rather hollow, bloodless
cheeks. Notwithstanding the shallow chest, he was power-
fully built, the long arms could deal a swinging blow. The low
forehead and the lustreless eyes told of a slight, unimaginative
brain, but regular features and a look of natural honesty made |
William Latch a man that ten men and eighteen women out of
twenty would like.

“I see you’ve got books in that bundle,” he said, at the end
of a long silence. “ Fond of readin’ ?”

“They are mother’s books,”’ she replied, hastily. “‘ I was
afraid to leave them at the station, for it would be easy for
anyone to take one out, and I shouldn’t miss it until I undid
the bundle.”

“ Sarah Tucker—that’s the upper-housemaid—will be after
you to lend them to her. She’s a wonderful reader. She has
read every story that has come out in Bow Bells for the last
three years, and you can’t puzzle her, try as you will. She
knows all the names, can tell you which lord it was that saved
the girl from the carriage when the ’osses were tearing like
mad towards a precipice a ’undred feet deep, and all about the
baronet for whose sake the girl went out to drown herself
in the moonlight. I ’aven’t read the books mesel’, but Sarah
and me are great pals.”

Esther trembled lest he might ask her again if she were
fond of reading, for she could not read ; and noticing a change
in the expression of her face, he thought she was disappointed
to hear he liked Sarah and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

6

“Good friends, you know—no more. Sarah and me never
hit it off ; she will worry me with the stories she reads. I don’t
know what’s your taste, but I likes something out of which
I can make a bit. The little ’oss in there, ’e’s more in my
line.”

“ They told me at the station,” she said, “ that the donkey-
cart would bring up my box.”

“The donkey-cart isn’t going to the station to-night—
you'll want your things, to be sure. I'll see the coachman ;
perhaps he’s going down with the trap. But, golly! it has gone
the half-hour. I shall catch it for keeping you talking, and my
mother has been expecting you for the last hour. She hasn’t
a soul to help her, and six people coming to dinner. You must
say the train was late.”

“ Let us go, then,” cried Esther. ‘“ Will you show me the
way ?”

Evergreen oaks looped into an arch over the iron gate which
opened into the pleasure-ground and the angles and urns of an
Italian house showed between beech-trees to which rooks
were returning. A high brick wall separated the pleasure-
ground from the stables, and as William and Esther turned to
the left and walked up-the roadway they passed by many
doors, hearing the trampling of horses and the rattling of
chains. The roadway opened into a handsome yard over-
looked by the house, the back premises of which had been
lately rebuilt in red brick. There were gables and ornamental
porches, and through the large kitchen windows Esther
caught sight of the servants passing to and fro. At the top
of this yard a gate led into the park and through it a string of
horses was coming. The horses wore grey clothing and hoods
and Esther noticed the black round eyes looking through
the eyelet holes, and the small, ugly boys, who swung their
legs, and struck the horses with little ash plants when they
reached their heads forward chawing at the bits. ‘‘ Look, see
him, the third one ; that’s he—that’s Silver Braid.”

An impatient knocking at the kitchen window interrupted

1

7

his admiration, and William, turning quickly, said: ‘‘ Mind
you say the train was late ; don’t say I kept you, or you'll get
me into a devil of a pickle. This way.” The door led into a
passage covered with cocoanut matting, and the handsome
room she found herself’ in did not conform to anything that
Esther had seen or heard of kitchens. For the range almost
filled one end of the room, and on it a dozen saucepans were
simmering ; the dresser reached to the ceiling, and was
covered with a multitude of plates and dishes, and Esther
thought how she must strive to keep it in its present beautiful
condition : the elegant white-capped servants passing round
the white table made her feel her own insignificance.

“ This is the new kitchenmaid, mother.”

“ Ah, is it indeed ?” said Mrs. Latch, looking up from the
tray of tartlets which she had taken from the oven and was
filling with jam, and Esther noticed Mrs. Latch’s likeness to
her son—the same long, narrow nose, the same temples.

“ I suppose you'll tell me the train was late ?”’

“Yes, mother, the train was a quarter of an hour late,”’
William chimed in.

“ T didn’t ask you, you idle, lazy good-for-nothing vagabond.
I suppose it was you who kept the girl all this time. Six people
coming to dinner, and I’ve been the whole day without a
kitchen-maid. If Margaret Gale hadn’t come down to help
me, I don’t know where we should be ; as it is, the dinner will
be late.”

The two housemaids, both in print dresses, stood listening,
and Esther’s face clouded when Mrs. Latch told her to take
her things off and set to and prepare the vegetables, so that
she might see what she was made of. Esther did not answer at
‘once, but turned away, saying under her breath: “I must
change my dress, and my box hasn’t come up from the station
yet.”

“You can tuck your dress up, and Margaret Gale will lend
you her apron.”

Esther hesitated.

8
‘‘ What you’ve got on don’t look as if it could come to much
damage. Come, now, set to.”
The housemaids burst into loud laughter, and then a sullen
look of dogged obstinacy passed over and settled on Esther's
face, even to the point of visibly darkening the white and rose

complexion. \

CHAPTER II

Estuer lay in a low, narrow iron bed, pushed close against
the wall in the full glare of the sun, staring half awake, her
eyes open but still dim with dreams. One end of the room that
she had awakened in was under the roof; a lean-to; and
through a broad, single pane the early sunlight fell across a
wall papered with blue and white flowers. On the wall were
two pictures—a girl with a basket of flowers, the coloured
supplement of an illustrated newspaper, an old and dilapidated
last-century print, and there were photographs of the Gale
family in Sunday clothes on the chimney-piece and the green
vases that Sarah had given Margaret on her birthday.

It was not yet time to get up, and Esther raised her arms as
if to cross them behind her head, but a sudden remembrance
of yesterday arrested the movement, and a shadow settled on
her face. She had refused to prepare the vegetables, and cook
had turned her out of the kitchen. She had rushed from the
house in the hope that she might succeed in walking back to
London; but William had overtaken her in the avenue;
he had argued with her, refusing to allow her to pass; she
had tried to tear herself from him, and, failing, had burst into
tears. He was kind, and, almost against her will, led her
back, saying all the while that he’d speak up for her and make
it all right with his mother. But Mrs. Latch had closed her
kitchen against her, and she had had to go to herroom. Even
if they paid her fare back to London, how was she to face her
mother? What would father say ? He would driveher from

9
the house. But she had done nothing wrong. Why did cook
insult her ?

Margaret’s bed stood in the shadow of the sloping wall ;
and she lay, one arm thrown forward, her short, square face
raised to the light, sleeping so heavily that for a moment
Esther felt afraid. But her eyes opened, and Margaret stared
at her as if out of eternity. Raising her hands to her eyes she
said :

“ What time is it ?”

“It has just gone six.”

“Then there’s plenty of time ; we needn’t be down before
seven. You get on with your dressing; there’s no use my
getting up till you are done—we’d be tumbling over each
other. This is no room to put two girls to sleep in—one glass
and not much bigger than your hand. You'll have to shove
your box under your bed. In my last place I had a beautiful
room with a Brussels carpet, and a marble washstand. I
” The girl

wouldn’t stay here three days if it weren’t
laughed and turned lazily over.

Esther did not answer.

“ Now, isn’t it a grubby little room to put two girls to sleep
in? What was your last place like ?”

Esther answered that she had hardly been in service before,
and Margaret was too much engrossed in her own no to

notice the curtness of the answer.

“ There’s only one thing to be said for Woodview, and that
is the eating ; we have everything we want, and we'd have
more than we want if it weren’t for the old cook: she must
have her little bit out of everything, and she cuts us short in
our bacon in the morning. But that reminds me! You’ve
set the cook against you, and will have to bring her over to
your side if you want to remain here.”

“‘ Why should I be asked to wash up the moment I came in
the house, before even I had time to change my dress ?”

“It was hard on you. She always gets as much as she can
out of her kitchenmaid. But last night she was pressed, there

10
was company to dinner. I’d have lent you an apron, and the
dress you had on wasn’t of much account.”

>

“ It isn’t because a girl is poor

“* Oh, I didn’t mean that ; I know well enough what it is
to be hard up.” Margaret clasped her stays across her
plump figure and walking to the glass began to brush her hair
from her forehead, remarking to Esther that she would be
glad when fringes were out of fashion, “ for I should have no
face at all if I was to wear one. Well, I never!” she said,
turning, for Esther did not answer her. “ Well, I never,
saying her prayers. Do you think they do any good ?”

Esther looked up angrily.

“T don’t want to say anything against saying prayers,
but I wouldn’t before the others if I was you—they’ll chaff
dreadful, and call you Creeping Jesus.”

“Oh, Margaret, I hope they won’t do anything so wicked.
But I am afraid I shan’t be long here, so it doesn’t matter what
they think of me.”

On their way downstairs they opened the windows and
doors, and Margaret took Esther round, showing her where
the things were kept, and telling her for how many she must
lay the table. At that moment a number of boys and men
came clattering up the passage asking for breakfast. They
cried to Esther to hurry up, declaring that they were late.
Esther did not know who they were, but she served them as
best she might ; and they had not been long gone when the
squire and his son Arthur appeared in the yard.

Mr. Barfield, nicknamed the Gaffer by the stable lads,

. was in his youth a famous steeplechase rider, but he was now
portly and it was difficult to see in him the young man who
had ridden the winner at Liverpool, a feat of horsemanship
that his son, Mr. Arthur, known in the stables as Ginger on
account of his yellow hair, hoped to outdo by riding at least
two winners of the steeplechase, an ambition which he might
well entertain, for there seemed no danger of his going up in
weight (he could ride a little over nine stone); a lanky,

11

narrow-chested, absurd-looking young man, who, however,
came into a new individuality the moment he prepared to get
into the saddle. He wore long-necked spurs attached to his
boots, and Esther admired the beautiful chestnut horse he
rode, a little too thin, she thought ; the ugly little boys were
mounted on horses equally thin ; the squire rode a stout grey
cob, and turned in his saddle to better see the chestnut, or was
it the brown horse that interested him? the one that walked
with his head in the air, pulling at the smallest of all the boys,
a little freckled, red-headed fellow.

“ That’s Silver Braid, the brown horse, the one the Demon is
riding. Ginger is riding the chestnut Bayleaf: he won the
City and Suburban. Oh, we did have a fine time then, for we
all had a bit on. The betting was twenty to one, and I won
twelve and sixpence. Grover won thirty shillings. They say
that John—that’s the butler—won a little fortune ; but he is’
so close no one knows what he has on. Cook wouldn’t have
anything on ; she says that betting is the curse of servants—
you know what is said, that it was through betting that Mrs
Latch’s husband got ike trouble. He was steward here, in
the late squire’s time.’

Margaret had heard the story many times, and she mele
off her rigmarole that “‘ old Latch was a confidential servant,
whose accounts were not examined properly till Marksman
failed to get in first for the Chester Cup. A great upset that
was, the squire’s property having to be put into the hands of a
receiver, who very soon got on the track of something odd,
and was sending for Latch to ask him to explain how the same
sums of money had been entered twice over. It was some
trick like that he’d been up to, and a clever one too, for it was:
some days before the accountant found it out, so I’ve heard.
Latch, like the squire, believed in Marksman, so there he was
up a tree, and they’d have clapped him into gaol if Mrs.
Latch hadn’t come forward with all her savings and offered to
go without wages till the money was paid up. Old Latch
died soon after, and Mrs. Latch has been taking her wages,

e

12

for the Barfields aren’t a bad lot; but I think,” Margaret
continued, ‘that she’d as soon they’d let her out, as the place
has become hateful to her for the past and the present too,
seeing that William can’t keep his thoughts off the race-
horses. It does seem ashame that the Gaffer should have had
William taught riding in the hope of making a jockey* of him
but he’d grown out of jockey’s size before he was sixteen, and
she put him into an office in Brighton. But he is the very
spit for a footman, as he well knows himself, and into livery
he’ll go sooner or later; and it is said that it will break his
mother’s heart when he comes running down the stairs in
silk stockings and powder, a cockade in his hat. Now you
know the whole of the story as much as I’ve heard of it myself,
and you’ve come in the nick of time, for there’s going to be a
trial this morning,” said Margaret ; “Silver Braid was stripped
—you noticed that—and Ginger always rides in the trials.”

““T don’t know what a trial is,” said Esther. ‘‘ They are
not carriage-horses, are they ? They look too slight.”

“ Carriage-horses, you ninny! Where have you been to
all this while—can’t you see that they are racehorses ?”

Esther hung down her head and murmured something
which Margaret didn’t catch.

“To tell the truth, I didn’t know much about them when I
came, but then one never hears anything else here. And that
reminds me—it is as much as your place is worth to breathe
one syllable about them horses; you must know nothing
when you are asked. That’s what Jim Story got sacked for—
saying in the ‘Red Lion’ that Valentine pulled up lame. We
~ don’t know how it came to the Gaffer’s ears. I believe that it
was Mr. Leopold who told; he finds out everything. But I
was telling you how I learnt about the racehorses. It was
from Jim Story—Jim was my pal—Sarah is after William,
you know, the fellow that brought you into the kitchen last
night. Jim could never talk about anything but the ’osses.
We'd go every night and sit in the wood-shed, that’s to say
if it was wet ; if it was fine we'd walk in the drove-way, and

13
I'd have married Jim, I know I should, if he hadn’t been sent
away. That’s the worst of being a servant. They sent Jim
away just as if he was a dog. It was wrong of him to say the
horse pulled up lame ; I know that, but they needn’t have sent
him away as they did<”

Esther was not listening. She was thinking of what would
happen to her. Would they send her away at the end of the
week, or that very afternoon? Would they give her a week’s
wages, or would they turn her out to find her way back to
London as best she might? What should she do if they
turned her out-of-doors that very afternoon? Walk back to
London? She didn’t know how far she had come—a long
distance, no doubt, for she had seen woods, hills, rivers, and
towns flying past. She’d never be able to find her way back
through them miles of country ; besides, she couldn’t carry
her box on her back. What wasshetodo? Nota friend, not
a penny in the world. Now why did such misfortune fall on a
poor girl who had never harmed anyone in the world! And
if they did give her her fare back—what then? Should she
go home? To whom? To her mother—to her poor mother,
who would burst into tears, saying: ‘“‘ Oh, my poor darling,
I don’t know what we shall do ; your father will never let you
stay here.”

Mrs. Latch told Esther to make haste and lay the table
afresh ; it seemed to Esther that she looked round with the
air of one anxious to discover something that might serve
as a pretext for blame. But she laid the table, saying to
herself, “‘so those that are gone are the stable folk, and
breakfast has now to be prepared for the other servants.”
A little later she discovered that the person in the dark green
dress who spoke with her chin in the air, whose nose had been
pinched to purple just above the nostrils, was Miss Grover, the
lady’s-maid. She heard her address an occasional remark
to Sarah Tucker, a tall girl with a thin, freckled face and dark
red hair But the butler, who was not feeling well, did not ap-
pear at breakfast, and Esther was sent to him with a cup of tea.

14

There were the plates to wash and the knives to clean,
and when they were done there were potatoes, cabbage,
onions to prepare, saucepans to fill with water, coal to fetch
for the fire, and Esther worked steadily without flagging,
fearful of Mrs. Barfield, who would come down, no doubt,
about ten o'clock to order dinner. ‘

“Well, do you think the Gaffer’s satisfied ?” said Mar-
garet, pointing ; for the racehorses were coming through the
paddock gate, and John, a little man, wizened, with frequent
indigestion, made no articulate reply, but went by muttering
something, his manner showing that his mind was set against
all female interest in racing. When Sarah and Grover came
running down the passage and overwhelmed him with ques-
tions, crowding round him, asking both together if Silver
Braid had won his trial, he testily pushed them aside, de-
claring that if he had a racehorse he wouldn’t have a woman-

servant in the place. “‘ A positive curse, this chatter, chatter.
Won his trial, indeed! What business had a lot of female
folk. ” The rest of John’s sarcasm was lost in his shirt

collar as he hurried away to his pantry, closing the door after
him.

“What a testy little man he is!” said Sarah ; “he might
have told us which won. He has known the Gaffer so long
that he can tell the moment he looks at him whether the gees
are all right.”

“One can’t speak to a chap in the lane that he don’t know
all about it next day,” said Margaret, “and that’s why
Peggy hates him; you know the way she skulks about the
. back garden and up the ’ill so that she may meet young
Johnson as he is ridin’ ’ome.”

“T'll have none of this scandal-mongering going on in my
kitchen,” said Mrs. Latch. ‘“‘ Do you see that girl there ?
She can’t get past to her scullery.”

It seemed to Esther that she could have managed pretty
well if it hadn’t been for the dining-room lunch. Miss Mary
was expecting some friends to play tennis with her, and

15

besides the roast chicken, there were the cutlets, Soubise
sauce, and a curry, a jelly, and a blancmange. She didn’t
know where the things were. ‘‘ Don’t you move, I might as
well get it myself,” said the old woman. Mr. Randal, too,
lost his temper, for shé had no hot plates ready, nor could she
distinguish between those that were to go to the dining-
room and those that were to go to the servants’ hall. She
understood, however, that it would not be wise to give way to
her feeling, and that the only way she could hope to retain
her situation was by doing nothing to attract attention. She
must learn to control that temper of hers—she must and would.
And it was in this frame of mind and with this determination
that she entered the servants’ hall.

There were not more than ten or eleven at dinner, but
sitting close together they seemed more numerous, and quite
half the number of faces that looked up, as she took her
place next to Margaret Gale, were unknown to her. The
four ugly little boys whom she had seen on the racehorses
were there, but she did not recognise them at first, and nearly
opposite, sitting next to the lady’s-maid, was a small, sandy-
haired man about forty : he was beginning to show signs of
stoutness, and two little round whiskers grew on his cheeks.
At the end of the table Mr. Randal sat helping the pudding,
addressing the sandy-haired man as Mr. Swindles, whose real
name was Ward, as Esther learnt afterwards: he was Mr.
Barfield’s head groom. She learnt, too, that ‘‘ the Demon ”
was not the real name of the little carroty-haired boy, and

1 ooked at him in amazement when he whispered in her ear that

he would dearly love a real go-in at that pudding, but it was
so fattening that he didn’t ever dare to risk more than a
couple of sniffs. Seeing that the girl did not understand,
he added, by way of explanation, ‘‘ You know I must keep
under the six stone, and at times it becomes awful ’ard.”

Esther thought him a nice little fellow, and tried to persuade
him to forgo his resolution not to touch pudding, until Mr.
Swindles told her to cheese it. The attention of the table

16

being drawn to the boy, Esther wondered at the admiration
with which everybody viewed him ; it seemed strange that he
should be the centre of so much interest, for he was but a little
fellow ; the bigger boys were overlooked, and as for the long-
nosed lad, with weak eyes and sloping shoulders, who sat on
the other side of the table on Mr. Swindles’ left, why, he was
everybody’s laughing-stock, and Mr. Swindles had just begun
the story of poor Jim’s misadventures with the Gaffer.

“But why do you call him Mr. Leopold when his name
is Mr. Randal?” Esther ventured to inquire of the Demon.

“On account of Leopold Rothschild,” said the Demon ;
‘* he’s pretty near as rich, if the truth was known—won a pile
over the City and Sub. Pity you weren’t here; might have
had a bit on.”

‘‘ T have never seen the City,” Esther replied innocently.

“‘ Never seen the City and Sub! I was up, had a lot in
hand, so I came away from my ’orses the moment I got into
the dip. The Tinman nearly caught me on the post—came
with a terrific rush ; he is just hawful, Tinmanis. I did catch
_ it from the Gaffer—he did give it me.”

The plates of all the boys except the Demon’s were now
filled with beefsteak pudding, potatoes, and greens, likewise
Esther’s. Mr. Leopold, Mr. Swindles, the housemaid, and the
cook dined off the leg of mutton, a small slice of which was sent
to the Demon. “ That for a dinner !” and as he took up his
knife and fork and cut a small piece of his one slice, he said,
“I suppose you never had to reduce yourself three pounds ;
girls never have. I do run to flesh so, you wouldn’t believe
it. IfI don’t walk to Portslade and back every second day, I
go up three or four pounds. Then there’s nothing for it but
the physic, and that’s what settlesme. Can you take physic?”

“I took three Beecham’s pills once.”

“ Oh, that’s nothing. Can you take castor-oil ?”

Esther looked in amazement at the little boy at her side,
and Swindles, who had overheard the question, burst into
laughter. Everyone wanted to hear the joke, and, feeling

17
they were making fun of her, Esther refused to answer

The first helpings of pudding or mutton had taken the
edge off their appetites, and before sending their plates for
more they leaned over the table listening and laughing open-
mouthed. It was a bare room, lit with one window and the
window looked on to one of the little back courts and tiled
ways which had been built at the back of the house. The
shadowed northern light softened the listening faces with grey
tints. ;

“You know,” said Mr. Swindles, glancing at Jim as if
to assure himself that the boy was there and unable to escape
from the hooks of his sarcasm, ‘‘ how fast the Gaffer talks,
and how he hates to be asked to repeat his words. Knowing
this, Jim always says, ‘ Yes, sir; yes, sir.’ ‘Now do you
quite understand ?’ says the Gaffer. ‘ Yes, sir; yes, sir,’
replies Jim, not having understood one word of what was said ;
but relying on us to put him right. ‘ Now what did he say
I was to do ?’ says Jim, the moment the Gaffer is out of hear-
ing. But this morning we were on ahead, and the Gaffer had
Jim all to himself. As usual he says, ‘Now do you quite
understand ?’ and as usual Jim says, * Yes, sir; yes, sir.’ As
I had it in my mind that Jim hadn’t understood, I said when
he joined us, ‘ Now if you ain’t sure what he said you had
better go back and ask him,’ but Jim said he had understood.
‘ And what did he tell you to do?’ saidI. ‘ He told me,’ says
Jim, ‘ to bring the colt along and finish up close by where he’d
be standing at the end of the track.’ I thought it rather odd
to send Firefly such a stiff gallop as all that, but Jim was
certain that he had heard right. And off they went, begin-
ning the other side of Southwick Hill. I saw the Gaffer with
his arms in the air, and don’t know now what he said. Jim will
tell you. He did give it you, didn’t he, you old Wool-
gatherer?”’ said Mr. Swindles, slapping the boy on the
shoulder.

“ You may laugh as much as you please, but I’m sure he did
tell me to come along three-quarter speed after passing the

-

18
barn,” replied Jim, and to change the conversation he asked
Mr. Leopold for some more pudding, and the Demon's
hungry eyes watched the last portion being placed on the
Woolgatherer’s plate. Noticing that Esther drank no beer,
he exclaimed : x

“Well, I never; to see yer eat and drink one would think
that it was you who was a-wasting to ride the crack at
Goodwood.”

The remark stirred up some laughter, and, excited by
his success, the Demon threw his arms round Esther, and
seizing her hands, said, ‘‘ Now yer a just beginning to get
But the
Demon, in his hungry merriment, had bestowed no thought of
finding a temper in such a staid girl, and a'sound box on the
ear threw him backwards into his seat surprised and howling.
“Yer nasty thing !” he blubbered out. ‘‘ Couldn’t you see it
was only a joke?’ But passion was hot in Esther. She
hadn’t understood a word that had been said since she had sat
down to dinner, and, conscious of her poverty and her ignor-
ance, she 1magined that a great deal of the Demon’s conversa-
tion had been directed against her ; and, choking with indigna~
tion, she only heard indistinctly the reproaches with which the
other little boys covered her—“ nasty, dirty, ill-tempered
thing, scullery-maid”—nor did she understand their
whispered plans to duck her when she passed the stables. All
looked a little askance, especially Grover and Mr. Leopold.
Margaret said :

“That will teach these impertinent little jockey boys
that the servants’ hall is not the harness-room ; they oughtn’t
to be admitted here at all.’

Mr. Leopold nodded, and told the Demon to leave off
blubbering. ‘‘ You can’t be so much hurt as all that. Come,
wipe your eyes and have a piece of currant tart, or leave the
room. I want to hear from Mr. Swindles an account of the
trial. We know that Silver Braid won, but we haven’t heard
how he won nor yet what the weights were.”

through yer ’osses, and when you get on a level

19

“Well,” said Mr. Swindles, “ what I makes out is this.
I was riding within a pound or two of nine stone, and The
Rake is, as you know, seven pounds, no more, worse than
Bayleaf. Ginger rides usually as near as possible my weight
—we'll say he was riding nine two—I think he could manage
that—and the Demon, we know, he is now riding over the six
stone ; in his ordinary clothes he rides six seven.”

“Yes, yes, but how do we know that there was any lead to
speak of in the Demon’s saddle-cloth ?”

“The Demon says there wasn’t above a stone. Don’t you,
Demon ?”

“T don’t know nothing! I’m not going to stand being
cuffed by the kitchenmaid.”

“Oh, shut up, or leave the room,” said Mr. Leopold;
““ we don’t want to hear any more about that.”

“ I started making the running according to orders. Ginger
was within three-quarters of a length of me, being pulled out
of the saddle. The Gaffer was standing at the three-quarters
of the mile, and there Ginger won fairly easily, but they went
on to the mile—them were the orders—and there the Demon
won by half a length, that is to say if Ginger wasn’t a-kidding
of him.”

“ A-kidding of me!” said the Demon. “ When we was a
hundred yards from ’ome I steadied without his noticing me,
and then I landed in the last fifty yards by half a length.
Ginger can’t ride much better than any other gentleman.”

“Yer see,” said Mr. Swindles, ‘‘ he’d sooner have a box
on the ear from the kitchen-maid than be told a gentleman
could kid him at a finish. He wouldn’t mind if it was the
Tinman, eh, Demon ?”

“*We know,” said Mr. Leopold, “ that Bayleaf can get
the mile; there must have been a lot of weight between
them. Besides, I should think that the trial was at the
three-quarters of the mile. The mile was so much kid.”

“ T should say,” replied Mr. Swindles, “ that the ‘orses were
tried at twenty-one pounds, and if Silver Braid can beat Bay-

-

20
leaf at that weight, he'll take a deal of beating at Goodwood.”

And leaning forward, their arms on the table, with large
pieces of cheese at the end of their knives, the maidservants
and the jockey listened while Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles
discussed the chances the stable had of pulling off the
Stewards’ Cup with Silver Braid.

“ But he will always keep on trying them,” said Mr.
Swindles, ‘‘ and what’s the use, says I, of trying ’orses that
are no more than ’alf fit? And them downs is just rotten
with ’orse watchers ; it has just come to this, that you can’t
comb out an ’orse’s mane without seeing it in the papers
the day after. If I had my way with them gentry——’
Mr. Swindles finished his beer at a gulp, and he put down his
glass as firmly as he desired to put down the horse watchers.
At the end of a long silence Mr. Leopold said :

“Come into my pantry and smoke a pipe. Mr. Arthur
will be down presently. Perhaps he'll tell us what weight he
was riding this morning.”

“Cunning old bird,” said Mr. Swindles, as he rose from
the table and wiped his shaven lips with the back of his
hand; “and you’d have~-us believe that you didn’t know,
would you? You’d have us believe, would you, that the
Gaffer don’t tell you everything when you bring up his hot
water in the morning, would you ?”

Mr. Leopold laughed under his breath, and looking
mysterious and very rat-like, he led the way to his pantry.
Esther watched them in strange trouble of soul.

She had heard of racecourses as shameful places where men
were led to their ruin, and betting she had always understood
to be sinful, but in this house no one seemed to think of
anything else. It was no place for a Christian girl.

“Let’s have some more of the story,” Margaret said.
“You've got the new number. The last piece was where he
is going to ask the opera-singer to run away with him.”

Sarah took an illustrated journal out of her pocket and
began to read aloud.

21
“IT am sure it is wicked to read such tales ’
Sarah looked at Esther in astonishment, and Grover said :
“You shouldn’t be here at all. Can’t Mrs. Latch find
nothing for you to do in the scullery ?”
“Then,” said Sarah, awaking to a sense of the situation,

>

“I suppose that where you come from you were not so much
as allowed to read a tale ?”

“ Esther’s box is full of books,” said Margaret.

“I should like to see them books,” said Sarah. “I'll be
bound that they are only prayer-books.”

“‘T don’t mind what you say to me, but you shall not insult
my religion.”

“Insult your religion! I said you never had read a book
in your life, unless it was a prayer-book.”

“We don’t use prayer-books.”

“ Then what books have you read ?”

Esther hesitated, and, suspecting the truth, Sarah said:

“T don’t believe you can read at all. Come, I'll bet you
twopence that you can’t read the first five lines of my
story.”

Esther pushed the paper from her and walked out of the
room suffocated with shame, though it was not her fault if
she didn’t know how to read, and, her thoughts returning to
Barnstaple, she went upstairs, drawn thither by her mother’s
books: Peter Parley’s Annual, Sunny Memories of Foreign
Lands, Children of the Abbey, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Lamb’s
Tales of Shakespeare's Plays, a Cooking Book, Rhoda’s Mission
of Love, the Holy Bible and the Book of Common Prayer. -

And she turned them over, wondering what were the
mysteries that this print held from her.

CHAPTER III

Estuer Waters was brought up in the strictness of a sect,
and her earliest memories were of people who tried to live

-

22

like the early Christians. Her life among these sectaries
lasted till she was ten years old, till her father died, a house-
painter, who in early youth had been led into intemperance
by some wild companions. She had often been told the story
how one day the fumes of the beer he had drunk overpowered
him as he sat in the sun on his derrick, and that he had called
upon God to relieve him of his suffering in the hospital, and
that a Plymouth Brother who occupied the next bed had
answered him: ‘“‘ You never thought of God before. Be
patient, your health is coming back ; it is a gift from God.
You would like to know Him and thank Him from the bottom
of your heart ?”

John Waters’ heart was touched by these simple words ;
he became one of the Brethren, and his conversion and
subsequent grace won for him the sympathies of Mary
Thornby. But Mary’s father would not consent to the
marriage unless John abandoned his dangerous trade of house-
painter, which John Waters consented to do, and old James
Thornby, who had made a competence in the curiosity line,
offered to make over his shop to the young couple on certain
conditions ; these conditions were accepted, and under his
father-in-law’s direction John drove a successful trade in old
glass, old jewellery, and old furniture.

The Brethren did not like this trade, and they often came
to John to speak with him on the subject, and their words
were : }

“ Of course, this is between you and the Lord, but these
things ” (pointing to the old glass and jewellery) “‘ often are
but snares for the feet, and lead weaker brethren into tempta-
tion. Of course, it is between you and the Lord.” So John
Waters was tormented with scruples concerning the righteous-
ness of his trade, but his wife’s gentle voice and eyes, and the
restrictions that his accident, from which he never wholly
recovered, set upon his life, overruled his scruples, and he
remained until he died a dealer in artistic ware, eliminating,
however, from his dealings those things to which the Brethren

23

most objected. After his death his widow strove to carry
on the business, but her father, who was now a confirmed
invalid, could not help her; in the following year she lost
both her parents, and about this time many changes were
taking place in Barnstaple, new houses were being built,
a much larger and finer shop had been opened in the more
prosperous end of the town, and Mrs. Waters found herself
obliged to sell her business for almost nothing, and marry
again. This second marriage proved more fruitful than the
first, children were born in rapid succession, the*cradle was
never empty, and Esther was spoken of as the little nurse.
But her great care was for her poor mother, who had lost her
health, whose blood was impoverished by constant child-
bearing, and mother and daughter were often seen in the
evenings, one with a baby at her breast, the other with an
eighteen months’ old child in her arms. Esther did not dare
leave her mother ; and to protect her against her stepfather
she gave up school, and this was why she had never learnt how
to read.

One of the many causes of quarrel between Mrs. Saunders
and her husband was her attendance at prayer-meetings,
when he said she should be at home minding her children.
He used to rail at her, saying she carried on with the Scripture
readers, and to punish her he would say, “‘ This week I'll
spend five bob more in the public—that’ll teach you, if
beating won’t, that I don’t want none of your hymn-and-
misery lot hanging round my place.” The father’s drinking
left the Saunders family with little to eat; once they were
nearly thirty hours without food, and it was often in Esther’s
thoughts how her mother called her little tribe about her, and,
kneeling down amongst them, she had prayed that God might
help them. Their prayers were answered, for at half past
twelve a Scripture lady came in with flowers in her hands, and
asked Mrs. Saunders how her appetite was. Mrs. Saunders
answered that it was more than she could afford, for there was
nothing to eat in the house. And then the Scripture lady

-

c

24,
gave them eighteenpence, and they all knelt down again and
thanked God together.

But although Saunders spent a great deal of his money in
the public-house, he rarely got drunk, and always kept his
employment. He was a painter of engines, a first-rate hand,
earning good money, from twenty-five to thirty shillings a
week—a proud man, but so avaricious that he stopped at
nothing to get money, selling his vote to the highest bidder at
elections, and when Esther was seventeen he drove her into
service, without a thought of the character of the people or of
what the place was like. They were then in London, living
in a little street off the Vauxhall Bridge Road, near the
factory where Saunders worked ; and since they had been in
London, Esther had been constantly in service in many
different lodging-houses, many of them of immoral character,
for she couldn’t pick and choose—she wasn’t wanted at home,
not being one of his children, and he had quite enough of his
own. Sometimes of an evening her mother would step round
to fetch her, and mother and daughter, wrapped in the same
shawl, would walk to and fro telling each other their troubles,
just as in old times. But these moments were few, for to get
her living she had to work from early morning till late at
night, scrubbing grates, preparing bacon and eggs, cooking
chops and making beds: she was one of the many London
girls to whom rest, not to say pleasure, is unknown, and who,
if they should sit down for a few moments, hear the mistress’s
voice, crying : “ Now, Eliza, have you nothing to do, that you
are sitting there idle ?”’ Two of her mistresses, one after the
other, had been sold up, and now all the rooms in the neigh-
bourhood were unlet, no one wanted a “ slavey.” Esther had
to return home, and it was on the last of these occasions that
her father had taken her by the shoulders, saying :

“No lodging-’ouses that want a slavey? I'll see about
that. Tell me, first, did you go to 78 ?”

“Yes, but another girl was before me, and the place was
taken when I got there ”

25

“I wonder what you was doing that you didn’t get there
sooner; dangling about after your mother, I suppose!
Well, what about 27 in the Crescent ?”

“T couldn’t go there—that Mrs. Dunbar is a bad woman.”

“Bad woman! Who are you, I should like to know, that
you can take a lady’s character away? Who told you she
was abad woman? One of the Scripture readers, I suppose !
I knew it was. Well, then, just get out.”

“Where shall I go ?”

“Go to hell for all I care. Do you ’ear-me? Get
out !”

Esther did not move—words, and then blows. Her escape
' from her stepfather seemed a miracle, and his anger was only
appeased by Mrs. Saunders promising that Esther should
accept the situation.

“ Only for a little while. Perhaps Mrs. Dunbar is a better
woman than you think for, dearie. For my sake. If you
don’t, he may kill you and me too.”

Esther looked at her one moment, then she said, “ Very
well, mother, to-morrow I'll take the place.”

And seeing that she was a good girl, Mrs. Dunbar respected
her scruples and was kind to Esther, who learnt to like her,
and, through her affection for her, to think less of the life she
led. And it was at this critical moment that Lady Elwin
heard her story, and promised Mrs Saunders to find Esther
another place ; and to obviate all difficulties about references
and character, proposed to take Esther as her own servant for
time enough to justify a recommendation.

And now, as Esther turned over her books—books which
she could not read—her pure, religious mind recalled the
story of her life ; her poor little brothers and sisters and her
dear mother, and that tyrant revenging himself upon them
because of the little she might eat and drink. But her
troubles seemed small compared with those she would endure
were she to return home. Yet her heart strained for depar-
ture. At home there was her mother and the meeting-house,

*

26
but in Woodview there was only Margaret, who had just come
to beg her to return to the kitchen. Margaret was kind, and,
turning aside to quench her tears, Esther answered she would
follow her down.

Two or three days passed without anything happening
that seemed to point to staying or going. Mrs. Barfield
would like her or dislike her—that was according to her
luck—and reports continued to come down of the missus’s
health (she was confined to her room with a cold), and with
them gossip that heartened Esther, who one day, while at
work in the scullery, heard the Saint’s voice in the kitchen—
it seemed to her to ring truth ; it inspired hope in Esther till
her heart began to beat faster and she held her breath; for
Mrs. Barfield was telling Mrs. Latch that this was the third
kitchen-maid in four months, and that she must make up her
mind to bear with ‘“ what’s-her-name ?’”—Esther Waters’s
faults and failings whatever they were. Mrs. Latch gave back
some sullen answers under cover of a great rattling of sauce-
pans ; Esther heard Mrs. Barfield call her, and a moment after
found herself face-to-face with a little red-haired woman,
with a pretty, pointed face.

““T hear, Waters—that is your name, I think—that you
refused to obey cook, and walked out of the kitchen the night

ou arrived.”

“T said, ma’am, that I would wait till my box came up
from the station, so that I might change my dress. Mrs.
Latch said my dress didn’t matter, but when you’re poor and

2”?

haven’t many dresses

“ Are you short of clothes, then ?”

“TI haven’t many, ma’am, and the dress I had on the day
I came——”

“Never mind about that. Tell me, are you short of
clothes ?—for if you are I daresay my daughter might find
you something—you are about the same height—with a little
alteration——”

“Oh, ma’am, that’s very good of you. But I think I shall

27
be able to manage till my first quarter’s wages come to me.”

Mrs. Barfield’s eyes and voice awoke in Esther a sense of
kinship, and all that day she moved about her work happy,
singing to herself as she washed the cauliflowers and peeled the
potatoes. Ifshe could only win over Mrs. Latch! Even this
wouldn’t be impossible, Margaret said, if Esther gave up her
beer—* a solid pint a day will soften her”; and Esther
answered, ‘‘ She can have my beer and welcome.”

“You'll be friends yet, I can see, for you’re a worker like
herself. The old thing can’t rest a minute. Her last kitchen-
maid said to her, ‘ I don’t mind telling you, Mrs. Latch, that
I’m not like you. I don’t like work, and I hope I never
shall.’ ”

“* Well, she had a cheek, and no mistake,” Esther answered ;
and she felt she had a friend in Margaret, which she had,
though Margaret seemed to make common cause sometimes
with Grover and Sarah, teasing Esther about her morning and
evening prayers, which she could not forgo. But there was no
spite in her quizzes, and Esther felt that while seeming to
make a mock of her she was defending her—warding off
strokes or allowing them to fall lightly.

Sometimes Margaret helped her with her work, which Mrs.
Latch seemed to make as heavy as possible ; but Esther was
now determined to remain in Woodview till she learned to
make jellies and gravies. Mrs. Latch, however, seemed to
have guessed what was in her mind, and was sure to find some
saucepans that had not been sufficiently cleaned with white
sand; and if these were lacking, she would send _ Esther
upstairs to scrub out her bedroom.

‘I can’t think why she is so down on me,” Esther often said
to Margaret.

“‘ She’s not more down on you than she was on the others;
but you can put it out of your head that she’s going to learn
you cooking. She isn’t going to see one of her kitchen-maids
take her place, and it’s only natural. But I don’t see why she
should always be sending you upstairs to clean out he

*

. 28
bedroom. If Grover wasn’t so stand-offish we might tell her
about it, and she would tell the Saint—that’s what we calls the
missus—and the Saint would soon put a stop to all that
nonsense. I'll say this for the Saint, that she do like everyone
to have fair play. One of your lot, you know, Esther”

“A Plymouth Sister!” Esther cried. All the instincts of
her mind came together, and in a moment of intense collected-
ness she heard her mistress’s story.

. Mrs. Barfield was the daughter of one of the farmers on the
estate—an old man, Elliot by name.

“He don’t often come down ’ere, but we sees ‘im when
we go out on the hillside of an evening, his long black coat
buttoned tightly about him, his soft felt hat crushed down
over his thin grey face. He don’t come down ’ere on account
of the ’orses, and it’s said that he never liked the marriage,
though it was to the Manor House his daughter was going.
But he couldn’t help ‘isself, for the Squire—the Gaffer as we
calls ’im—was dead set on Miss Elliot. You can’t keep a
landlord off his own land, nor you can’t keep your own daughter
always within doors; and so the two of them used to meet
beyond the barn, and a familiar sight they were walking
through the furze together, the Gaffer leading his cob and she
by his side. I don’t know how much truth there is in the
story, but it was said that one evening old Elliot and the
Squire came to words, and very nearly to something more than
words. One of the shepherds tells that he seed the old fellow
raise his stick. Mayhap, but the end of it was that the

Squire promised to become one of the Brethren, and never to
_ bet again or to own racehorses, and the stables was to be done
away with. The Gaffer was then a farmer ’imself, hold-
ing his land from his father ; and the old folk tried to break
off the match, for they were anxious to be well in with the
county—a thing that they never could be, for you see the
Barfields were not county from the beginning. They only
became county three generations ago. Before that they
were in trade—livery stable-keepers, it was said. So you

29
see it’s a see-saw, up and down, and no more than
that.”

““ But the Gaffer didn’t keep his promise,” Esther said.

“He kept his promise as long as he could. The racing
came back ; but how it came back I can’t tell you. Nobody
knows that but Mr. Leopold. Only he can tell you. I’ve
heard him say that when the Saint heard that the Gaffer
entered one of his hunters in the Hunt Steeplechase (that’s
how it begun), she was broken-hearted. But a woman’s
bound to stand by her husband. So Elliot just sends a
cheque for his rent, and the Saint goes over to see her father
sometimes, and the Gaffer never interferes with the prayer-
meetings. What are you thinking now, Esther ? ”

Esther was thinking that her mistress’s life was like her
own in many ways, but she was not moved to confide her
story to Margaret. She wished to ponder on all she had
heard, and looked forward to the moment when Mrs. Barfield
would ask her some question that would allow her to say,
“I’m a Plymouth Sister, ma’am.” Margaret had told her
that one of Saint’s rules was to have the women-servants for
half an hour every Sunday afternoon in the library for in-
struction in the life of Christ.

Although nearly fifty, her figure was slight as a young
girl’s, and Esther was attracted by the little oval face—
reddish hair growing thin at the parting and smoothed
back above the ears, as in an old engraving. When their
eyes met at prayers there was acknowledgment of religious
kinship. A glow of happiness filled Esther’s soul, for she
knew she was no longer wholly among strangers ; she knew
they were united—she and her mistress—under the sweet
dominion of Christ. She couldn’t take her eyes off Mrs
Barfield, so much did she remind her of her pious childhood
in the old shop, and, listening to the beautiful story, in
the annunciation of which her life had grown up, she answered
her mistress’s questions in sweet light-heartedness of spirit,
pleasing her with her knowledge of the Holy Book. Turn

30

and turn about the servants had to read verses aloud from
the New Testament, and Esther saw that her secret would
be torn from her. Sarah had read a verse, and Mrs. Barfield
had explained it, and now Margaret was reading. Esther
listened, thinking if she might plead illness and eseape from
the room; but she could not summon sufficient presence of
mind, and while she was still agitated and debating within
herself, Mrs. Barfield called to her to continue. She hung
down her head, suffocated with the shame of the exposure,
and when Mrs. Barfield told her again to continue the reading,
Esther shook her head.

“ Can’t you read, Esther ?” she heard a kind voice saying ;
and the sound of this voice loosed the feelings long pent
up, and the girl, giving way utterly, burst into passionate
weeping. She was alone with her suffering, conscious of
nothing else, until a kind hand led her from the room, and this
hand soothed away the bitterness of the tittering which
reached her ears as the door closed. It was hard to persuade
her to speak, but even the first words showed that there
was more on the girl’s heart than could be told in a few
minutes, so Mrs. Barfield dismissed the other servants and
returned to the library with Esther, and in that dim room of
little green sofas, bookless shelves, and bird-cages, the
women—iistress and maid—sealed the bond of a friendship
which was to last for life.

She told her mistress of the work that Mrs. Latch required
of her, the persecution she received from the other servants,
principally because of her religion. They dropped into
" talking of the racehorses, and Esther saw on her mistress’s face
a look of grief, that made clear to her the cause to which Mrs.
Barfield traced the demoralisation of her household.

“ T will teach you how to read, Esther. Every Sunday after
our Bible instruction you shall remain for half an hour when
the others have left. You will soon learn.”

And from that day forth, every Sunday afternoon, Mrs.
Barfield devoted half an hour to the instruction of her kitchen-

31
maid. But Esther did not make much progress, nor did her
diligence seem to help her, and Mrs. Barfield ascribed her
pupil’s slowness to her own inaptitude to teach and the little
time for lessons. -

CHAPTER IV

EsTHER’s position in Woodview was now secure, and her fellow-
servants recognised the fact, though they liked her none the
better for it. Mrs. Latch still did what she could to prevent
her from learning her trade, but she no longer attempted to
overburden her with work. Of Mr. Leopold she saw almost
as little as she did of the people upstairs. He passed along the
passages or remained shut up in his pantry. Ginger used to
go there to smoke ; and when the door stood ajar Esther saw
his narrow person seated on the edge of the table, his leg
swinging. Among the pantry people Mr. Leopold’s erudition
was a constant subject of admiration. His reminiscences of
the races of thirty years ago were full of interest ; he had seen
the great horses whose names live in the stud-book, the horses
the Gaffer had owned, had trained, had ridden, and he was full
of anecdote concerning them and the Gaffer. Praise of his
father’s horsemanship always caused a cloud to gather on
Ginger’s face, and when he left the pantry Swindles chuckled.
“* Whenever I wants to get a rise out of Ginger I says, ‘ Ah, we
shall never see another gentleman jock who can use the whip
at a finish like the Governor in his best days.’ ”

Everyone delighted in the pantry, and to make Mr. Leopold
comfortable Mr. Swindles used to bring in the wolf-skin rug
that went out with the carriage, and wrap it round Mr.
Leopold’s wooden armchair, and the sallow little man would
curl himself up, and, smoking his long clay, discuss the weights
of the next big handicap. If Ginger contradicted him he
would go to the press and extract from its obscurity a package
of Bell’s Life or a file of the Sportsman.

*

32

Mr. Leopold’s press! For forty years no one had looked
into that press. Mr. Leopold guarded it from every gaze,
but it seemed to be a much-varied repository from which, if he
chose, he could produce almost any trifle that might be
required. It seemed to combine the usefulness of a hardware
shop and a drug store.

The pantry had its etiquette and its discipline. Jockey
boys were rarely admitted, unless with the intention of
securing their services for the cleaning of boots or knives.
William was very proud of his right of entry. For that
half-hour in the pantry he would surrender willingly the
pleasure of walking in the drove-way with Sarah. But
when Mrs. Latch learnt that he was there her face darkened,
and the noise she then made about the range with her sauce-
pans was alarming. Mrs. Barfield shared her cook’s fear of
the pantry, and often spoke of Mr. Leopold as “ that little
man.” Although outwardly the family butler, he had never
ceased to be the Gaffer’s private servant ; he represented the
old days of bachelorhood. Mrs. Barfield and Mrs. Latch
disliked him. Mrs. Barfield felt sure her husband would not
have returned to racing had itnot been for Mr. Leopold, and
Mrs. Latch attributed her husband’s downfall to him.
Legends and mystery had formed around Mr. Leopold and his
pantry, and in Esther’s unsophisticated mind this little room,
with its tobacco-smoke and glasses on the table, became a
symbol of all that was wicked and dangerous ; and when she
passed the door she closed her ears and instinctively lowered
her eyes.

The simplest human sentiments were abiding principles in
i Esther—love of God, and love of God in the home. But above
this Protestantism was human nature ; her twentieth year
thrilled within her; and no longer half starved, her eyes
opened to the beauty of the world, and she sang at her work,
gladdened by the sights and sounds of the yard, the young
rooks cawing lustily in the ilex-trees, the gardener passing to
and fro with plants in his hands, the white cats licking them-

33

selves in the sun or running to meet the young ladies who
brought them plates of milk. The racehorses were always
going to or coming from the downs. Sometimes they came in
so covered with white mud that part of their toilette was
accomplished in the yard; and from her kitchen window she
could see the beautiful animal haltered to the hook fixed in the
high wall, and the little boy in his shirt sleeves and hitched-up
trousers, not a bit afraid, but shouting and quieting him into
submission with the stick when he kicked and bit, tickled by
the washing brush, passing under the belly. Then the
wrestling, sparring, ball-playing of the lads when their work
was done, and the pale, pathetic figure of the Demon, who was
about to start for Portslade and back, wrapped as he would put
it, in a red-hot scorcher of an overcoat.

Esther often longed for a romp with these boys, with whom
she was now prime favourite. Once they caught her in the
hay yard, and fine sport it was in the warm hay throwing each
other over. Sometimes her wayward temper would get the
better of her, but her momentary rage vanished at the
sound of laughter. And after their tussling they would walk a
little while pensively, until perhaps one, with an adroit trip,
would send the other rolling over on the grass, and then, with
wild cries, they all run down the drove-way. And there was
the day when the Woolgatherer told her he was in love ; what
fun they had had, and how well she had led him into belief
that she was jealous. Of course it was all very wrong to take
a rope as if she were going to hang herself, and having fastened
it to a branch, to kneel down as if she were saying her prayers.
The poor Woolgatherer could stand it no longer ; he rushed to
her side, swearing that if she would promise not to hang
herself he would never look at another girl again. The
other boys, who had been crouching in the drove-way, rose
up. How they did mock the Woolgatherer till he burst into
tears, and Esther felt sorry for him, and almost inclined to
marry him out of pity for his forlorn condition.

Her life grew happier and happier. She was still very

34
poor, she had not sufficient clothes, and her life was full of
little troubles, but there were compensations. It was to her
that Mrs. Barfield always came when she wanted anything in a
hurry, and Miss Mary, too, seemed to prefer to apply to
Esther when she wanted milk for her cats or bran and oats for
her rabbits.

The Gaffer and his racehorses, the Saint and her greenhouse,
Miss Mary entertaining her visitors in the drawing-room or on
the tennis lawn—so went the stream of life at Woodview.
Mrs. Barfield saw no one, preferring to remain in her old
gown—an old thing that her daughter had discarded long
ago—pinned up around her, and on her head an old bonnet
with a faded poppy hanging from the crown. In such attire
she wished to be allowed to trot about to and fro from her
greenhouse to her potting-shed, watering, pruning, and
syringing her plants. These plants were dearer than all
things to her except her children; she seemed, indeed, to
treat them as if they were children, and with the sun pouring
through the glass down on her back she would sit freeing them
from devouring insects all the day long. She would carry can
after can of water up the long path and never complain of
fatigue. She broke into complaint only when Miss Mary
forgot to feed her pets, of which she had a great number—
rabbits, and cats, and rooks—and all the work developed upon
her. She could not see these poor dumb creatures hungry,
and would trudge to the stables, coming back laden with oats
and bran. But it was sometimes more than a pair of hands
could do, and she would send Esther with scraps of meat and

bread and milk to the unfortunate rooks that Mary had so
unmercifully forgotten. “I'll have no more pets,” she’d say ;
“ Miss Mary won’t look after them, and all the trouble falls
upon me. See these poor cats, how they come mewing round
my skirts.” She loved to expatiate on her affection for dumb
animals, and she continued an anecdotal discourse till,
suddenly wearying of it, she would break off and speak to
Esther about Barnstaple and the Brethren.

35

The Saint loved to hear Esther tell of her father and the
little shop in Barnstaple, of the prayer-meetings and the
simple earnestness and narrowness of the faith of those good
Brethren. Circumstances had effaced, though they had not
obliterated, the once sharply marked confines of her religious
habits. Her religion was like a garden—a little less sedulously
tended than of yore, but no whit less fondly loved ; and while
listening to Esther’s story she dreamed her own early life over
again, and paused, laying down her watering-can, overcome
with the listlessness of happy memories. And so Esther’s life
grew and was fashioned amid the ceaseless round of simple
daily occupations, mistress and maid learning to know and to
love one another in the tender and ineffable sympathies of race
Sian igta en Sos eee

CHAPTER V

Tue summer drowsed, baking the turf on the hills, and after
every gallop the Gaffer passed his fingers along the fine legs of
the crack, in fear and apprehension lest he should detect any
swelling. William had five shillings on, and stood to win five
pounds ten—quite a little fortune. He often stopped to ask
Esther if there was any news as he made his way to the
pantry, and she told him that so far as she knew Silver Braid
was all right, and continued shaking the rug.

“You'll never get the dust out of that rug,” he said at last ;
“ here, give it to me.” She hesitated, then gave it him, and
he beat it against the brick wall. ‘‘ There,” he said, handing
it back to her, “ that’s how I beats a mat; you won’t find
much dust in it now.”

“Thank you. Sarah went by an hour and a half ago.”

“‘ Ah, she must have gone to the Gardens. You have never
been to those Gardens, have you? Dancing-hall, theatre,
sorcerers—every blessed thing. But you’re that religious, I
suppose you wouldn’t come?”

36
“ Tt is only the way you are brought up.”
“ Well, will you come ?”
“I don’t think I should like those Gardens. But I daresay
they are no worse than any other place. I’ve heard so much

29

since I was here, that really.
“ That really what ? ”
“That sometimes it doesn’t seem much good to be

‘

particular.”

“ Of course—all rot. Well, will you come next Sunday ? -

“ Certainly not on Sunday.”

The Gaffer had engaged him as footman : his livery would
be ready by Saturday, and he would enter service on Monday
week ; and this reminded them that henceforth they would
see each other every day, and, speaking of the pain it would
give his mother when he came running downstairs to go out
with the carriage, he said :

“ It was always her idea that I shouldn’t be a servant, but I
believe in doing what you gets most coin for doing. I should
like to have been a jockey, and I could have ridden well
enough—the Gaffer thought better at one time of my riding
than he did of Ginger’s. But I never had any luck; when I
was about fifteen I began to grow. If I could have remained
like the Demon——”

Esther looked at him, wondering if he were speaking
seriously, and really wished away his splendid height and
shoulders.

A few days later he tried to persuade her to take a ticket
in a shilling sweepstakes which he was getting up among
the out and the indoor servants. She pleaded poverty—her
wages would not be due till the end of August. But William
offered to lend her the money, and he pressed the hat
containing the bits of paper on which were written the horses’
names so insinuatingly upon her that a sudden impulse to
oblige him came over her, and before she had time to think she
had put her hand in the hat and taken a number.

“Come, none of your betting and gambling in my kitchen,”

37
said Mrs. Latch, turning from her work. “‘ Just you leave the
girl alone.”

“Don’t be that nasty, mother; it ain’t betting, it’s a
sweepstakes.”

“Tt is all the same,” muttered Mrs. Latch; “ it always
begins that way, and it goes on from bad to worse. I never
saw any good come from it, and heaven knows I’ve seen
enough misfortune.”

Margaret and Sarah paused, looking at her open-mouthed,
a little perplexed, holding the numbers they had drawn in both
hands. Esther had not unfolded hers. She looked at Mrs.
Latch, and feared jeers from Sarah, and from Grover, who had
just come in, for her inability to read the name of the horse
she had drawn. Seeing what was up, William took her paper
from her.

“Silver Braid. By Jingo! She has got the right one.”

At that moment the sound of hoofs was heard in the yard,
and the servants flew to the window.

“ He'll win,” cried William, leaning over the women’s backs,
waving his bony hand to the Demon, who rode past on Silver
Braid. ‘‘ The Gaffer will bring him to the post as fit as a
fiddle.”

“I think he will,” said Mr. Leopold. ‘ The rain has done
us a lot of good ; he was beginning to go a bit short a week
ago. We shall want some more rain. I should like to see it
come down in buckets for the next week or more.”

Mr. Leopold’s desires looked as if they were going to be
fulfilled. The heavens seemed to have taken the fortunes
of the stable in hand. Rain fell generally in the afternoon
and night, leaving the mornings fine, and Silver Braid went
the mile gaily, becoming harder and stronger. And, in the
intermittent swish of showers blown up from the sea, Wood-
view grew joyous, and a conviction of triumph gathered and
settled on every face except Mrs. Barfield’s and Mrs. Latch’s.
And askance they looked at the triumphant little butler. He
became more and more the topic of conversation. He seemed

38
to hold the thread of their destiny in his press. Peggy was
especially afraid of him.

And, continuing her confidence to the under-house-
maid, the young lady said, “‘I like to know things for the
pleasure of talking about them, but he spies around for the
pleasure of holding his tongue.” Peggy was Miss Margaret
Barfield, a cousin, the daughter of a rich brewer. “If he
brings in your letters in the morning he hands them to you
just as if he knew whom they are from. Ugly little beast ; it
irritates me when he comes into the room.”

“He hates women, Miss ; he never lets us near his pantry,
and he keeps William there talking racing.”

“ Ah, William is very different. He ought never to have
been a servant. His family was once quite as good as the
Barfields.”’

“So I have heard, Miss. But the world is that full of ups
and downs, you never can tell who is who. But we all likes
William, and ’ates that little man and his pantry. Mrs. Latch
calls him the ‘ evil genius.’ ”

' A furtive and clandestine little man, ashamed of his women-
folk, keeping them out of sight as much as possible, and his
wife a pale, dim woman, tall as he was short, preserving still
some of the graces of the lady’s-maid, shy either by nature or
by the severe rule of her lord, always anxious to obliterate
herself against the hedges when you met her in the lane, or
against the pantry door when any of the family knocked to ask
for hot water, or came with a letter for the post. And by
nature a bachelor, he was instinctively ashamed of his family,
‘for when the weary-looking wife, the thin, shy girl, or the
corpulent, flat-faced son were with him and he heard steps
outside, he would come out like a little wasp, and, unmistak-
ably resenting the intrusion, would ask what was wanted.

If it were Ginger, Mr. Leopold would say, “Can I do
anything for you, Mr. Arthur ? ”

“Oh, nothing, thank you; I only thought that EN
and Ginger would invent some paltry excuse and slink

39
away to smoke elsewhere.

Every day, a little before twelve, Mr. Leopold went out
for his morning walk ; every day, if it were fine, you would
meet him at that hour in the lane either coming from or going
to Shoreham. For thirty years he had done his little con-
stitutional, always taking the same road, always starting
within a few minutes of twelve, always returning in time to
lay the cloth for lunch at half past one. The hour between
twelve and one he spent in the cottage which he rented from
the squire for his wife and children, or in the “ Red Lion,”
where he had a glass of beer and talked with Watkins, the
bootmaker.

““ There he goes, off to the ‘ Red Lion,’ ” said Mrs. Latch.
“They try to get some information out of him, but he’s too
sharp for them, and he knows it; that’s what he goes there
for—just for the pleasure of seeing them swallow the lies he
tells them. He has been telling them lies about the horses
for the last twenty years, and still he gets them to believe
what hesays. Itisacruelshame! It was the lies he told poor
Jackson about Blue Beard that made the poor man back the
horse for all he was worth.”

“ And the horse didn’t win ? ”

“Win! The master didn’t even intend to run him, and
Jackson lost all he had, and more. He went down to the
river and drowned himself. John Randal has that man’s
death on his conscience. But his conscience don’t trouble
him much ; if it did, he’d be in his grave long ago. Lies,-lies;~
nothing but lies! But I daresay I’m too ’ard on him; isn’t
lies our natural lot ? \ What is servants for but to lie when it is
in their master’s interests, and to be a confidential servant is to
be the Prince of liars ! ”’ /

“* Perhaps he didn’t know the ’orse was scratched.”

“ I see you are falling in nicely with the lingo of the trade.”

“Oh,” replied Esther, laughing: “you never hears
anything else ; you pick it up without knowing. Mr. Leopold
is very rich, so they say. The boys tell me that he won a pile

° D

40
over the City and Suburban, and has thousands in the bank.”’
“So some says ; but who knows what he ’as? You hear of
the winnings, but they says very little about the losings.”

CHAPTER VI

Tur pony and the donkey came towards the paddock gate,
and she rubbed their muzzles in turn. It was a pleasure to
touch anything, especially anything alive. She even noticed
that the elm-trees were strangely tall and still against the
calm sky, and the rich odour of some carnations, which came
through the bushes from the pleasure-ground, excited her ;
the scent of earth and leaves tingled in her, the cawing of the
rooks coming home took her soul away skyward in an exquisite
longing ; and she was, at the same time, full of a romantic love
for the earth, and of a desire to mix herself with the innermost
essence of things. The beauty of the evening and the sea —
breeze instilled a sensation of immortal health, setting her
thinking that if a young man came to her as young men came
to the great ladies in Sarah’s books, it would be pleasant to
talk in the dusk, seeing the bats flitting about the barns and
byres vanishing into nothingness.

The family was absent from Woodview, and she was free
to enjoy the beauty of every twilight and every rising moon
for still another week. But she wearied for a companion.
The boys were playing ball in the stables, but she did not feel
as if she wanted to romp with them. Sarah and Grover were
- far too grand to walk out with her; and Margaret had a
young man who came to fetch her, and in their room at night
she related all he had said. But for Esther there was nothing
to do all the long summer evenings but to sit at the kitchen
window sewing. Her hands fell on her lap, and her heart
heaved a sigh of weariness. In all this world there was
nothing for her to do but to continue her sewing or to go for a
walk up the hill. She was tired of that hill! But she could

41

not sit in the kitchen till bedtime, and thinking that she might
meet the old shepherd coming home with his sheep, she put a
piece of bread in her pocket for his dogs and strolled up the
hillside. Margaret had gone down to the Gardens with her
young man, and one of these days a young man would come to
take her out. Now what would he be like? She laughed the
thought away, for it did not seem likely that any young man
would bother about her. But at that moment, she saw a man
coming through the hunting gate. His height and shoulders
told her that he was William. ‘‘ Trying to find Sarah,’’ she
thought. “I must not let him think I am waiting for him.”
And she continued her walk, wondering if he were following,
afraid to look round. At last she began to hear footsteps ;
her heart beat faster and seemed to stand still when he called
to her.

“ T think Sarah has gone to the Gardens,” she said, turning
round.

“You always keep rubbing it in about Sarah! There’s
nothing between us, or anything there ever was is all off long
ago. Are you going for a walk on the downs ? ”

She was glad of the chance to get a mouthful of fresh air, and
William held the hunting gate open, which she had never been
through before, and was surprised to find herself in front of so
much wild country: two great ranges of downs—the Shore-
ham Downs in front of them, rising up hill after hill as if the
earth had once aspired to reach the sky; the Worthing
range, some miles away, over against the great shallow valley
of the Adur, full of green water meadows and long herds-of
cattle.

There was a smell of sheep in the air, and the flock trotted
past them in good order, followed by the shepherd, with a
huge hat on his head, a crook in his hand, and two shaggy
dogs at his heels. A brace of partridges rose out of the
sainfoin, and flew down the hills ; and watching their curving
flight Esther and William saw the sea under the sun-setting
and the string of coast towns.

42

“A lovely evening, isn’t it ? ”’

Esther acquiesced ; and tempted by the warmth of the
grass they sat down.

‘‘ We shan’t have any rain yet awhile.”

“* How do you know?” ‘

**T'll tell you,” William answered, eager to show his
superior knowledge. “ Look due south-west, straight through
that last dip in them line of hills. Do you see anything?”

‘No, I can’t see nothing,” said Esther, after straining her
eyes for a few moments.

“TI thought not. . . . Well, ifit was going to rain you'd see
the Isle of Wight.”

For something to say, and hoping to please, Esther asked
him where the racecourse was.

“Over yonder. I can’t show you the start, a long way
behind that hill, Portslade way ; and then they come right
along by that gorse and finish up by Truly barn. You can’t see
Truly barn from here—that’s Thunder’s barrow barn; they
go quite half a mile farther.”

_ “ And do all that land belong to the Gaffer ? ”

“Yes, and a great deal more, too; but this downland
isn’t worth much—not more than about ten shillings an
acre.”

“And how many acres are there?”

“ Do you mean all that we can see ? ”

mvess

“The Gaffer’s property reaches to Southwick Hill, and it
goes north along way. I suppose you don’t know that all this
' piece all that lies between us and that barn yonder once
belonged to my family.”

“To your family ?”

“Yes, the Latches were once big swells; in the time of
my great-grandfather the Barfields couldn’t hold their heads
as high as the Latches. My great-grandfather had a pot of
money, but it all went.”

“ Racing ?”

43

“A good bit, I’ve no doubt. A rare ’ard liver, cock-
fighting, ’unting, ’orse-racing from one year’s end to the
other. Then after ‘im came my grandfather ; he went to the
law, and a sad mess he made of it—went stony-broke and left
my father without a sixpence ; that is why mother didn’t want
me to go into livery. The family ’ad been coming down for
generations, and mother thought that I was born to restore it;
and so I was, but not as she thought, by carrying parcels up
and down the King’s Road.”

Esther looked at William in silent admiration, and, feeling
that he had secured an appreciative listener, he continued his
monologue regarding the wealth and rank his family had
formerly held, till a heavy dew forced them to their feet, and
they followed the paths through the furze, stopping to listen
to a nightingale in the coombe below.

“ In that thorn-tree over yonder—don’t you see ? ”’ he said

The coast began to light up soon after, and William pointed
out Brighton, Portslade, Southwick, Shoreham, Lancing, and
Worthing.

The sheep had been folded, and seeing them lying between
the wattles, the greyness of this hillside, and beyond them the
massive moonlit landscape and the vague sea, Esther suddenly
became aware, as she had never done before, of the exceeding
beauty of the world. Looking up in William’s face, she said:

“Oh, how beautiful ! ”

As they descended the drove-way their feet raised the
chalk, and William said :

“‘ This is bad for Silver Braid ; we shall want some more rain
in a day or two. Let’s come for a walk round the farm,” he
said suddenly. “ The farm belongs to the Gaffer, but he’s let
the Lodge to a young fellow called Johnson. He’s the chap
that Peggy used to go after—there was awful rows about that,
and worse when he forestalled the Gaffer about Egmont.”

He turned from Johnson into the story of the chap who had
jilted Miss Mary, and the various burlesque actresses at the
Shoreham Gardens that Ginger had been after; and these

44s

stories, which she only half understood, conveyed a sense of
liberation. She had never been happy before; and now it
seemed that she could never be unhappy again, and while
wondering how this great change had come about, she listened
to William, who was showing her the pigeon-house with all the
birds dozing on the tiles, a blue one here and there; they
visited the workshop, the forge, and the old cottages where
the bailiff and the shepherd lived; and everything was so
wonderful that it seemed as if she had been asleep all the
while and had only just awakened. They regained the high-
road soon after; the downs and sea came into sight, and
Esther, her eyes fixed on the long marshlands of the foreshore,
walked listening to William who had returned to his projects
for his advancement in life. At last they came to a stile
leading into a cornfield by a little wood in which a nightingale
was singing. It took some searching to find him, for he had
not chosen any of the trees for his perch but a lowly hedge,
which seemed strange to Esther but not to William, who said,
“ He’s not singing for us but for the little mate in her nest.”
He struck a match, putting the music to flight, and all along
the white road William continued his monologue, interrupted
only by the necessity of puffing at his pipe.

‘* Mother says that if I had twopence worth of pride in me I
wouldn’t have consented to put on the livery ; but what I says
to mother is, ‘ What’s the use of having pride if you haven’t
money? I tells her that I am rotten with pride, but my pride
is tomake money. I can’t see that the man what’s willing to
remain poor all his life has any pride at all. But, Lord! Ihave
_ argued with mother till I’m sick ; she can see nothing further
than the livery ; that’s what women are—they are that short-
sighted. A lot of good it would have done me to carry parcels
all my life, and, when I could do four mile an hour no more, to
be turned out to die in the ditch and be buried by the parish.
‘Not good enough,’ says I. ‘If that’s your pride, mother,
you may put it in your pipe and smoke it, and as you ’aven’t
got a pipe, perhaps behind the oven will do as well ’—that’s

45
what I said to her. I saw well enough there was nothing for
me but service, and I means to stop here until I can get on
three or four good things and then retire into a nice comfort-
able public-house and do my own betting.”

“You'd give up betting, then?”

“ I'd give up backing ’orses, for what I’d like to do would be
to get on to a dozen good things at long prices—half a dozen
like Silver Braid would do it. For a thousand or fifteen
hundred pounds I could have the ‘ Red Lion,’ and just inside
my own bar I could do a hundred-pound book on all the big
races.”

She listened just as if she understood, for it mattered to
her little what he talked so long as he was talking to her.
She heard references to jockeys, publicans, weights, odds,
and the certainty, if he had the “Red Lion,” of being able
to get all Joe Walker’s betting business away from him.
William’s allusions to the police, and the care that must be
taken not to bet with anyone who has not been properly
introduced, frightened her ; but her fears died in the sensation
of his arm about her waist, and the music that the striking of a
match had put to flight began in her heart, and it rose to its
height when his face bent over hers,

CHAPTER VII

Tue Barfield reckoning was that they had a stone in hand.
Mr. Leopold said that Bayleaf at seven stone would be backed
to win a million of money, and Silver Braid, who had been
tried again with Bayleaf, and with the same result as before,
had been let off with only six stone.

More rain had fallen, the hay crop was spoilt, and the
prospects of the wheat harvest were jeopardised, but what
did a few bushels of wheat matter? Another pound of
muscle was worth all the corn that could be grown between
here and Henfield. Let the rain come down, let every

46

ear of wheat be destroyed, so long as those delicate fore-
legs remained sound. These were the ethics at Woodview,
and within the last few days they were accepted by the little
town and not a few of the farmers, grown tired of seeing their
crops rotting on the hillsides. The fever of the gamble was in
eruption, breaking out in unexpected places—the station-
master, the porters, the flymen, all had their bit on, and
notwithstanding the enormous favouritism of two other
horses in the race—Prisoner and Stoke Newington—Silver
Braid was creeping up in the betting, for reports of trials won
had reached Brighton, and with the result that not more than
five-and-twenty to one could now be obtained.

An alarming piece of news it was that the Demon had gone
up several pounds in weight, and the strictest investigation
was made as to when and how he had obtained the food
required to produce such a mass of adipose tissue. The
Gaffer had the boy upstairs and handed him a huge dose of
salts, keeping his eye upon him till he had swallowed every
drop; and, when the effects of the medicine had worn off,
he was sent for a walk to Portslade in two large overcoats,
accompanied by William to make the running. On his return
a couple of feather beds were ready, Mr. Leopold and Mr.
Swindles laid him between them, and when he began to cease
sweating Mr. Leopold made him a cup of hot tea.

“That’s the way the Gaffer used to get the flesh off in the
old days when he rode the winner at Liverpool.”

“It’s the Demon’s own fault,” said Mr. Swindles; “if he
hadn’t been so greedy he wouldn’t have had to sweat, and we

should ’ave been spared a deal of bother and anxiety.”

“ Greedy !’ murmured the ae boy, in whom the wad
tea had induced a new sweat; ‘“‘I haven’t had what you
might call a dinner for the last three months. I think Ill
chuck the whole thing.”

“ Not until this race is over,” said Mr. Swindles. “Supposing
I was to pass the warming-pan down these ’ere sheets. What do
you say, Mr. Leopold ? They are beginning to feel a bit cold.”

47

“Cold! I ’ope you'll never go to a ’otter place. For
God’s sake, Mr. Leopold, don’t let him come near me with
the warming-pan, or else he’ll melt the little flesh that’s left
off me.” ,

“You ’ad better not make such a fuss,” said Mr. Leopold ;
“if you don’t do what you are told, you'll have to take salts
again and go for another walk with William.”

“If we don’t warm up them sheets ’e’ll dry up,” said Mr.
Swindles.

“No, I won’t ; I’m teeming.”

“‘ Be a good boy, and you shall have a nice cut of mutton
when you get up,” said Mr. Leopold.

“How much? Two slices?”

“Well, you see, we can’t promise ; it all depends on how
much has come off, and ’aving once got it hoff, we don’t want
to put it on again.”

“ T never did ’ear such rot,”’ said Swindles. “ In my time a
boy’s feelings weren’t considered—one did what one con-
sidered good for them,” and while Mr. Swindles raised the
bedclothes, Mr. Leopold strove to engage the Demon’s
thoughts with compliments regarding his horsemanship in the
City and Sub.

“ Oh, Mr. Swindles, you are burning me.”

““ For eaven’s sake don’t let him start out from under the
bedclothes like that! Can’tyer’oldhim? Burning you! I
never even touched you with it; it was the sheet that you
felt.”

“ Then the sheet is as ’ot as the bloody fire. Will yer leave
i

“ “What! a Demon like you afraid of a little touch of ’eat ;
wouldn’t ’ave believed it unless I ’ad ’eard it with my own
ears,” said Mr. Leopold. ‘‘ Come, now, do yer want to ride
the crack at Goodwood or do yer not? If you do, keep quiet,
and let us finish taking off the last couple of pounds.”

“* It is the last couple of pounds that takes it out of you ; the
first lot comes off jest like butter,” said the boy, rolling out of

48
the way of the pan. “I know what it will be ; I shall be so
weak that I shall just ride a stinking bad race.”

Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles exchanged glances. It was
elear that they thought there was something in the last words
of the fainting Demon, and the pan was withdrawn. But
when the boy was put into the scale again it was found that he
was not yet nearly the right weight, and the Gaffer ordered
another effort to be made. The Demon pleaded sore feet, but
he was sent off all the same to Portslade in charge of
William.

As the last pounds came off the Demon’s little carcass Mr.
Leopold’s face resumed a more tranquil expression, and it
began to be whispered that instead of hedging any part of his
money he would stand it all out, and one day a market
gardener brought up word that he had seen Mr. Leopold going
into Brighton.

“Old Watkins isn’t good enough for him, that’s about it.
If Silver Braid wins, Woodview will see very little more of Mr,
Leopold. He’ll be for buying one of them big houses on the
sea road and keeping his own trap.”

CHAPTER VIII

Tue great day was now fast approaching. The Gaffer had
promised to drive his folk in a drag to Goodwood. No more
rain was required, the colt’s legs remained sound, and three
days of sunshine would make all the difference in their sum of
happiness. In the kitchen Mrs. Latch and Esther had been
busy for some time with chickens and pies and jellies, and in
the passage there were cases packed with fruit and wine.
The dressmaker had come from Worthing, and for several
days the young ladies had not left her ; and one fine morning,
very early—about eight o’clock—the wheelers were backed
into the drag that had come from Brighton. The yard
resounded with the blaring of the horn. It was Ginger

magls

49
practising under his sister’s window.

“You'll be late! You'll be late!”

With the exception of two young gentlemen, who came at
the invitation of the young ladies, it was quite a family party.
Miss Mary sat beside her father on the box, and looked very
charming in white and blue. Peggy’s black hair seemed
blacker than ever under a white silk parasol, which she waved
negligently above her as she stood up calling and talking to
everyone until the Gaffer told her angrily to sit down, as he
was going to start. Then William and the coachman let go
the leaders’ heads, and running alongside swung themselves
into their seats. At the same moment a glimpse was caught
of Mr. Leopold’s sallow profile amid the boxes and the
mackintoshes that filled the inside of the coach.

“Oh, William did look that handsome in those beautiful
new clothes! Everyone said so—Sarah and Margaret and
Miss Grover. I’m sorry you didn’t come out to see him.”

Mrs. Latch made no answer, and Esther remembered how
she hated her son to wear livery, and thought that she had
perhaps made a mistake in saying that Mrs. Latch should
have come out to see him. “ Perhaps this will make her
dislike me again,’ thought the girl. Mrs. Latch moved
about rapidly, and she opened and closed the oven; then,
raising her eyes to the window and seeing that the other
women were still standing in the yard and safely out of
hearing, she said :

“Do you think that he has bet much on this race ? ”

“Oh, how should I know, Mrs. Latch? But the horse is
certain to win.”

“Certainto win! JI have heard that tale before ; they are
always certain to win. So they have gained you round to
their way of thinking, have they ? ” said Mrs. Latch, straight-
ening her back. “

“I know very well indeed that it is not right to bet ; but
what can a girl do? If it hadn’t been for William I never
would have taken a number in that sweepstakes.”

,

-

50

“Do you like him very much, then?”

“ He has been very kind to me—he was kind when——’

“Yes, I know, when I wasn’t. You don’t know all. I was
much troubled at that time, and somehow I did not But
there is no ill feeling? . . . I'll make it up to you—J'll teach
you how to be a cook.”

“ Oh, Mrs. Latch, I am sur 4

“‘ Never mind that. When you went out to walk with him
the other night, did he tell you that he had many bets on the
race p””

“He talked about the race, like everyone else, but he
didn’t tell me what bets he had on.”

“No, they never do do that. But you'll not tell him that I
asked you?”

** No, Mrs. Latch, I promise.”
, “ It would do no good, he’d only be angry ; it would only
set him against me. I am afraid that nothing will stop him
now. Once they gets a taste for it, it is like drink. I wish he
was married, that might get him out of it. Some woman who

?

would have an influence over him, some strong-minded
woman. I thought once that you were strong-minded——”’
At that moment Sarah and Grover entered the kitchen
talking loudly. They asked Mrs. Latch how soon they could
have dinner—the sooner the better, for the Saint had told
them that they were free to go out for the day. They were to
try to be back before eight, that was all. Ah! the Saint was a
first-rate sort. She would get herself a bit of lunch in the
dining-room. She did not want anyone to attend on her.
‘Mrs. Latch allowed Esther to hurry on the dinner, and by one
o'clock they had all finished. Sarah and Margaret were
going in to Brighton to do some shopping, Grover was going to
Worthing to spend the afternoon with the wife of one of the
guards of the Brighton and South Coast Railway. Mrs.
Latch went upstairs to lie down. So it grew lonelier and
lonelier in the kitchen. Esther’s sewing fell out of her hands,
and she wondered what she should do. It seemed to her that

51
she might sit by the sea, and soon after she was putting on her
hat and stood thinking that she had not seen the sea since she
watched tall ships coming into the harbour at Barnstaple, sail
falling over sail, and tall ships floating out of the harbour, sail
rising over sail, catching the breeze as they went aloft.

But few if any ships came into Shoreham Harbour. “ None
in my time, anyway,” she said, as she crossed a suspension
bridge, ornamented with straight-tailed lions. It took her
over the weedy river, and, having crossed some pieces of rough
grass, she climbed the shingle bank, and sat looking at a blank,
sailless sea, lonely as a prison it seemed to her. But her
thoughts reverting to William suddenly, she fell to thinking of
the happy evening when she saw him coming through the
hunting gate, and they walked together over the downs ; and
she remembered the moment when, with his arm about her, he
explained that if the horse won she’d take seven shillings out
of the sweepstakes, for she knew then that William did not
care about Sarah, and, happy in this belief, she lay on the
shingle, her day-dream becoming softer and more delicate as
it rounded into summer sleep. . . . Her eyes opened, and she
returned to consciousness with difficulty, unable to connect
herself with the sea and the shingle beach on which she was
lying. At last she remembered. Ah, yes, the others had
gone to Goodwood, that’s how it was. And unable to think
further she lay dreamily watching flights of clouds till a
footfall roused her.

“Good evening, Mrs. Randal,” said Esther, glad to find
someone to speak to. “‘ I’ve been asleep.”

“ Good evening, Miss. You're from Woodview, I think ? ”

“Yes, I’m the kitchen maid. They’ve gone to the races ;
there was nothing to do, so I came down here.”

Mrs. Randal’s lips moved as if she were going to say some-
thing.

“ | think that it must be getting near tea-time,”’ she said at
last ; “I must be going. You might come in and have a cup
of tea with me, if you’re not in a hurry back to Woodview.”

*

52

Esther said she’d be glad of a cup of tea, and in silence the
two women crossed the meadows that lay between the shingle
bank and the river, seeing trains passing all the while over the
spider-legged bridge.

“Tt is all over now,” Mrs. Randal said, as she unlocked the
cottage door. “ The people in those trains know well enough
which has won.”

“Yes, I suppose they know, and somehow I feel as if I
knew too. I feel as if Silver Braid had won.”

“ I’ve heard others say that before. Won't you come in?”
And Esther entered the leanest house she had ever been in.

Everything looked as if it had been scraped, and the spare
furniture expressed a meagre, lonely life. Mrs. Randal
dropped a plate as she laid the table, and stood pathetically
looking at the pieces, and when Esther asked for a teaspoon
she gave way utterly.

“ Thaven’t one to give you; I had forgotten that they were
gone. I should have remembered and not asked you to tea.”

“Tt don’t matter, Mrs. Randal; I can stir up my tea with
anything—a knitting-needle will do very well.”

“T should have remembered and not asked you back to
tea; but I was so miserable, and it is so lonely sitting in this
house, that I could stand it no longer. And talking to you
saved me from thinking, and I didn’t want to think until this
race was over. If Silver Braid is beaten we are ruined.
Indeed, I don’t know what will become of us. For fifteen
years I have borne up; I have lived on little at the best of
times, and very often have gone without ; but that is nothing

-compared to the anxiety—to see him come in with a white
face, to see him drop into a chair and hear him say, ‘ Beaten a
head on the post,’ or, ‘ Broke down, else he would have won in
a canter.’ I have always tried to be a good wife and tried to
cheer him up, and to do the best when he said, ‘ I have lost
half a year’s wages, I don’t know how we shall pull through.’
I have stood ten thousand times more than I can tell you.
The sufferings of a gambler’s wife cannot be told. Tell me

53

what do you think my feelings must have been when one
night I heard him calling me out of my sleep, when I heard
him say, ‘I can’t die, Annie, without bidding you good-bye.
I can only hope that you will be able to pull through, and I
know that the Gaffer will do all he can for you, but he has been
hit awful hard too. You mustn’t think too badly of me,
Annie, but I have had such a bad time that I couldn’t put up
with it any longer, and I thought the best thing I could do
would be to go.’ That’s just how he talked—nice words to
hear your husband speak in your ear through the darkness !
There was no time to send for the doctor, so I jumped out of
bed, put the kettle on, made him drink glass after glass of salt
and water and at last he brought up the laudanum.”

Esther listened to the tall melancholy woman, and re-
membered the little man whom she saw every day so orderly,
so precise, so sedate, so methodical, into whose life she thought
no faintest emotion had ever entered—and this was the truth.

“So long as I only had myself to think of I didn’t mind >
but now there are the children growing up. He should
think of them. Heaven only knows what will become of
them. John is as kind a husband as ever was if it weren’t for
that one fault ; but he can’t resist having something on any-
more than a drunkard can resist the bar-room.”

“* Winner, winner, winner of the Stewards’ Cup ! ”

The women started to their feet, but when they got into the
street the boy was far away ; besides, neither had a penny to
pay for the paper, and they wandered about the town hearing
and seeing nothing, so nervous were they. At last Esther

>

proposed to ask at the “Red Lion’? who had won. Mrs.
Randal begged her to refrain, urging that she was unable to
bear the tidings should it be evil.

“ Silver Braid,’ the barman answered. The girl rushed
through the doors. “It’s all right, it’s all right; he has
won!”

Soon after the little children in the lane were calling forth

“Silver Braid won!” And overcome by the excitement

*

54

Esther walked along the sea-road to meet the drag. She
walked on and on until the sound of the horn came through the
crimson evening and she saw the leaders trotting in a cloud of
dust. Ginger was driving, and he shouted to her, “ He
won!’? The Gaffer waved the horn and shouted, ‘‘ He won !”’
Peggy waved her broken parasol and shouted, “ He won!”
Esther looked at William. He leaned over the back seat and
shouted, ‘“‘He won!” She had forgotten all about late
dinner. What would Mrs. Latch say ? On such a day as this
she would say nothing.

CHAPTER IX

Nearty everything came down untouched. The Barfields
had been eating and drinking almost all day on the course,
and Esther had finished washing up before nine. But if little
was eaten upstairs, plenty was eaten downstairs ; the mutton
was finished in a trice, and Mrs. Latch had to fetch from the
‘larder what remained of a beefsteak pudding. Even then
they were not satisfied, and fine inroads were made into a new
piece of cheese. Beer, according to orders, was served without
limit, and four bottles of port were sent down so that the
health of the horse might be adequately drunk.

While assuaging their hunger the men had exchanged many
remarks regarding the Demon’s bad ending, how nearly he
had thrown the race away ; and the meal being now over,
and there being nothing to do but to sit and talk, Mr. Leopold,
. encouraged by William, entered on an elaborate and technical
account of the race. The women listened, playing with a rind
of cheese, glancing at the cheese itself, wondering if they
could manage another slice, and the men sipping their port
wine, puffing at their pipes, William listening most greedily,
enjoying each sporting term, and reminding Mr. Leopold of
some detail ingeniously whenever he seemed disposed to
shorten his narrative. The criticism of the Demon’s horse-

55

manship took a long while, for by a variety of suggestive
remarks William led Mr, Leopold into reminiscences of the
skill of certain famous jockeys in the first half of the century.
These digressions wearied Sarah and Grover, and their
thoughts wandered to the dresses that had been worn that
day, and the lady’s-maid remembered she would hear all that
interested her that night in the young ladies’ rooms. At last,
losing all patience, Sarah declared that she didn’t care what
Chifney had said when he just managed to squeeze his
horse’s head in front in the last dozen yards, she wanted to
know what the Demon had done to nearly lose the race—had
he mistaken the winning-post and pulled up? William looked
at her contemptuously, and would have answered rudely, but
at that moment Mr. Leopold began to tell the last instructions
that the Gaffer had given the Demon. The orders were that
the Demon should go right up to the leaders before they
reached the half-mile and remain there. Of course, if he
found that he was a stone or more in hand, as the Gaffer
expected, he might come away pretty well as he liked, for the
greatest danger was that the horse might get shut out or
might show temper and turn it up.

““ Well,” said Mr. Leopold, “ there were two false starts,
and Silver Braid must have galloped a couple of ’undred yards
afore the Demon could stop him. There wasn’t twopenny
worth of strength in him—pulling off those three or four
pounds pretty well finished him. He’ll never be able to ride
that weight again. He said afore starting that he felt weak ;
you took him along too smartly from Portslade the last time
you went there.”

“When he went by himself he’d stop playing marbles with
the boys round the Southwick public-house.”

“ If there had been another false start I think it would have
been all up with us. The Gaffer was pale, and he stood there
not taking his glasses from his eyes. There were over thirty
of them, so you can imagine how hard it was to get them into
line. However, at the third attempt they were got straight

. E

56

and away they came, a black line stretching right across the
course. Presently the black cap and jacket came to the front,
and not very long after a murmur went round, ‘ Silver Braid
wins.’ Never saw anything like it in all my life. He was
three lengths a’ead, and the others were pulling off. ‘Damn
the boy; he'll win by twenty lengths,’ said the Gaffer,
without removing his glasses. But when within a few yards of
the stand %

At that moment the bell rang. Mr. Leopold said, “‘ There,
they are wanting their tea ; I must go and get it.”

‘‘ Drat their tea,” said Margaret ; ‘‘ they can wait. Finish
up ; tell us how he won.”

Mr. Leopold looked round, and seeing every eye fixed on
him he considered how much remained of the story, and with
quickened speech continued, “‘ Well, approaching the stand, I
noticed that Silver Braid was not going quite so fast, and at the
very instant the Demon looked over his shoulder, and seeing
he was losing ground he took up the whip. But the moment
he struck him the horse swerved right across the course, right

‘under the stand, running like a rat from underneath the whip.
The Demon threw the whip across and caught him one across
the nose, but seeing what was ’appening, the Tinman, who
was on Bullfinch, sat down and began riding. I felt as if there
was a lump of ice down my back,”’ and Mr. Leopold lowered
his voice, and his face became grave as he recalled that
perilous moment. “ I thought it was all over,” he said, ‘‘ and
the Gaffer thought the same ; I never saw a man go so deadly
pale. It was all the work of a moment, but that moment was °
more than a year—at least, so it seemed to me. Well, about
halfway up the rails the Tinman got level with the Demon.
It was ten to one that Silver Braid would turn it up, or that the
boy wouldn’t ’ave the strength to ride but so close a finish as it
was bound to be. I thought then of the way you used to take
him along from Portslade, and I’d have given something to’ve
put a pound or two of flesh into his thighs and arms. The
Tinman was riding splendid, getting every ounce and some-

57
thing more out of Bullfinch. The Demon, too weak to do
much, was sitting nearly quite still. It looked as if it was all
up with us, but somehow Silver Braid took to galloping of his
own accord, and ’aving such a mighty lot in ’and, he won on the
post by a ’ead—a short ’ead.

“I never felt so queer in my life, and the Gaffer was no
better ; but I said to him, just afore the numbers went up,
“It is all right, sir, he’s just done it,’ and when the right
number went up I thought everything was on the dance,
going for swim like. By golly, it was a near thing !”’~ At the
end of a long silence Mr. Leopold said, shaking himself out of
his thoughts, ““ Now I must go and get their tea.”

Esther sat at the end of the table; her cheek leaned on
her hand. By turning her eyes she could see William ; and
when Sarah caught sight of these stealthy glances, a look of
anger crossed her face ; she called to William ; she asked him
when the sweepstakes money would be divided, startling him
from a reverie of small bets. ‘‘ It can be divided at once,’ he
answered. “ There’s no reason why it shouldn’t. There’s
twelve of you. That’s right, isn’t it ?—Sarah, Margaret,
Esther, Miss Grover, Mr. Leopold, myself, the four boys, and
Swindles and Wall. Well, it was agreed that seven should go
to the first, three to the second, and two to the third. Noone
got the third ’orse, so I suppose the two shillings that would
have gone to him ’ad better be given to the first.”

“* Given to the first! Why, that’s Esther! Why should
she get it? What do you mean? No third! Wasn’t
Soap-bubble third ? ”

** Yes, Soap-bubble was third right enough, but he wasn’t in
the sweep.”

“* And why wasn’t he?”

“Because he wasn’t among the eleven first favourites.
We took them as they were quoted in the betting list pub-
lished in the Sportsman.”

“* How was it, then, that you put in Silver Braid ? ”

“ Yer needn’t get so angry, Sarah ; no one’s cheating; it is all

58
above board. If you don’t believe us, you’d better accuse us
straight out.”

“What I want to know is, why Silver Braid was included ?—
he wasn’t among the eleven first favourites.”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid, Sarah ; you know that we agreed
to make an exception in favour of our own ‘orse—a nice sweep
it would ’ave been if we ’adn’t included Silver Braid.”

** And suppose,” she exclaimed, tightening her brows,
‘‘ that Soap-bubble had won, what would have become of our
money ?”

“It would have been returned—everyone would have got
his shilling back.”

“And now I am to get three shillings, and that little

Methodist or Plymouth Brethren there, whatever you like to
call her, is to get nine !”’ said Sarah, with a light of inspiration
flashing through her beer-clouded mind. “‘ Why should the
two shillings that would have gone to Soap-bubble, if anyone
’ad drawn ‘im, go to the first ’orse rather than to the
second ?”
- William hesitated, unable for the moment to give a good
reason why the extra two shillings should be given to Silver
Braid ; and Sarah, perceiving her advantage, accused him of
wishing to favour Esther.

“Don’t we know that you went out to walk with her, and
that you stayed out till nearly eleven at night. That’s why
you want all the money to go to her. You don’t take us for a
lot of fools, do you? Never in any place I ever was in before
would such a thing be allowed—the footman going out with
~ the kitchen-maid, and one of the Dissenting lot.”

“I am not going to have my religion insulted! How dare
you?” And Esther started up from her place ; but William
was too quick for her. He grasped her arm.

“ Never mind what Sarah says.”

“ Never mind what I says! ... A thing like that, who
never was in a situation before ; no doubt taken out of some
‘ouse. Rescue work, I think they call it-——”

59

“She shan’t insult me—no, she shan’t!” said Esther,
tremulous with passion.

“A nice sort of person to insult!” said Sarah, her arms akimbo.

“Now look you here, Sarah Tucker,” said Mrs. Latch,
starting from her seat, ‘“‘ I’m not going to see that girl ag-
gravated, so that she may do what she shouldn’t do, and give
you an opportunity of going to the missis with tales about her.
Come away, Esther, come with me. Let them go on betting
if they will; I never saw no good come of it.”

“‘ That’s all very fine, mother ; but it must be settled, and
we have to divide the money.”

“T don’t want your money,” said Esther, sullenly; “I
wouldn’t take it.”

“What blooming nonsense! You must take your money.
Ah, here’s Mr. Leopold ! he’ll decide it.”

Mr. Leopold said at once that the money that under other
circumstances would have gone to the third horse must be
divided between the first and second; but Sarah refused to
accept this decision. Finally, it was proposed that the matter
should be referred to the editor of the Sportsman ; and, as
Sarah still remained deaf to argument, William offered her
choice between the Sportsman and the Sporting Life.

“ Look here,” said William, getting between the women ;
“‘ this evening isn’t one for fighting ; we have all won our little
bit, and ought to be thankful. The only difference between
you is two shillings, that were to have gone to the third horse
if anyone had drawn him. Mr. Leopold says it ought to be
divided ; you, Sarah, won’t stand by his decision. We have
offered to write to the Sportsman, and Esther has offered to give
up her claim. Now, in the name of God, tell us what do you
want ?”

Sarah couldn’t keep to the point, and the argument tangled,
rattled on, and stood still. At last the speakers stared at each
other, talked dry.

“Well, that’s how it is. Give me the money I’ve won—
them three shillings, my winnings, is all I’m asking for.”

60

“ Haven’t I made it plain a

“No, you haven't.”

“Oh, indeed! Well, good night, ladies. I have had
enough of you for to-night ; I am going to finish my smoke in
the pantry. Don’t scratch all your ’air out; leave enough
for me to put into a locket.”

When the pantry door was shut, and the men had smoked
some moments in silence, William said :

“Do you think he has any chance of winning the Chester-
field Cup ?”

“He'll win in a canter if hell only run straight. And
if I was the Gaffer I think I’d put up a bigger boy. He'll ’ave
to carry a seven-pound penalty, and Johnnie Scott could ride
that weight.”

The likelihood that a horse will bolt with one jockey and run
straight with another was illustrated with interesting re-
miniscences drawn from that remote past when Mr. Leopold
was the Gaffer’s private servant—before either of them had
married—when life was composed entirely of horse-racing and
prize-fighting. But cutting short his tale of how he met one
day the Birmingham Chicken in a booth, and, not knowing
who he was, offered to fight him, Mr. Leopold confessed he
did not know how to act—he had a bet of fifty pounds to ten
shillings for the double event, and couldn’t make up his mind
if he should stand it out or lay some of it off. William thrilled
with admiration. What a’ead, and who'd think it ? that little
*ead hardly bigger than a cocoanut! What a brain there was
inside! Fifty pounds to ten shillings ; should he stand it out
or hedge some of it? Who could tell better than Mr. Leo-
pold? It would, of course, be a pity to break into the fifty.
What did ten shillings matter? Mr. Leopold was a big
enough man to stand the racket of it even if it didn’t come
back. William felt very proud of being consulted, for Mr.
Leopold had never before been known to let anyone know
what he had on a race.

And next day they walked into Shoreham together.

61
The bar of the “ Red Lion ” was full of people. Above the
thronging crowd the voice of the barman and the customers
were heard calling, “Two glasses of Burton, glass of bitter,
three of whisky cold.” There were railway porters, sailors,
boatmen, shop-boys, and market gardeners. They had all
won something, and had come for their winnings.

The book-maker, an elderly man with white whiskers and a
curving stomach, had just run in to wet his whistle. He
walked back to his office with Mr. Leopold and William, a
little corner shelved out of some outhouses into which you
could walk from the street.

“ Talk of favourites !” he said; ‘ I’d sooner pay over the
three first favourites than this one—thirty, twenty to one
starting price, and the whole town on to him ; it’s enough to
break any man. Now, my men, what is it ?” he said, turning
to the railway porters.

“ Just the trifle me and my mates ’av won over that ’ere
’orse.””

“* What was it ?”

** A shilling at five-and-twenty to one.”

“ Look it out, Joey. Is it all right ?”

“* Yes, sir ; yes, sir,” said the clerk.

And old Watkins slid his hand into his breeches pocket, and
it came forth filled with gold and silver.

“Come, come, mates, we are bound to ’ave a bet on him
for the Chesterfield—we can afford it now; what say yer, a
shilling each ?”

“‘ Done for a shilling each,” said the under porter “ finest
’orse in training. What price, Musser Watkins ?”

“Ten to one.”

“ Right, ’ere’s my bob.”

The other porters gave their shillings ; Watkins slid them
back into his pocket, and called to Joey to book the bet.

“ And, now, what is yours, Mr. Latch ?”

William stated the various items. He had had a bet of ten
shillings to one on one race and had lost ; he had had half a

*

62

crown on another and had lost ; in a word, three-and-sixpence
had to be subtracted from his winnings, which amounted to
more than five pounds. A great sum for a footman, to be
sure, and the world seemed to be his when he slipped four
sovereigns and a handful of silver into his waistcoat pocket.
Should he put a sovereign of his winnings on Silver Braid for
the Chesterfield? Half a sovereign was enough! The
danger of risking a sovereign—a whole sovereign—frightened
him.

“* Now, Mr. Latch,” said old Watkins, “ if you want to back
anything, make up your mind; there are a good many
besides yourself who have business with me.”’

William hesitated, and then said he’d take ten half-sover-
eigns to one against Silver Braid. ;

“Ten half-sovereigns to one ?” said old Watkins.

William murmured “ Yes,’’ and Joey booked the bet.

Mr. Leopold’s business demanded more consideration. The
fat betting man and the scarecrow little butler walked aside
and talked, both apparently indifferent to the impatience of a
number of small customers; sometimes Joey called in his
shrill cracked voice if he might lay ten half-crowns to one, or
five shillings to one, as the case might be. Watkins would
then raise his eyes from Mr. Leopold’s face and nod or shake
his head, or perhaps would sign with his fingers what odds he
was prepared to lay. With no one else would Watkins talk so
lengthily, showing so much deference. Mr. Leopold had the
knack of investing all he did with an air of mystery, and the
deepest interest was evinced in this conversation. At last, as

-if dismissing matters of first importance, the two men ap-
proached William, and he heard Watkins pressing Mr. Leo-
pold to lay off some of that fifty pounds.

“Tl take twelve to one—twenty-four pounds to two.
Shall I book it ?”

Mr. Leopold shook his head, and William, much impressed,
congratulated himself on his courage in taking the ten half-
sovereigns to one. For if there was a man in this world that

63
knew a thing or two, that man was Mr. Leopold. He had
been talking to the Gaffer that morning, and if it hadn’t been
all right he would have laid off some of the money.

Next day one of the Gaffer’s two-year-olds won a race, and
the day after Silver Braid won the Chesterfield Cup.

The second victory of Silver Braid nearly ruined old Watkins.
He declared that he had never been so hard hit ; but as he did
not ask for time and continued to draw notes and gold and
silver in handfuls from his capacious pockets, his lamentations
only served to stimulate the happiness of the fortunate
backers, and, listening to the sweet note of self, ringing in
their hearts, they returned to the public-house to drink the
health of the horse.

So the flood of gold continued to roll into the little town,
decrepit and colourless by its high shingle beach and long
reaches of muddy river. The dear gold jingled merrily in the
pockets, quickening the steps, lightening the heart, curling
lips with smiles, opening lips with laughter. The dear gold
came falling softly, sweetly as rain, soothing the hard lives of
working folk. Lives pressed with toil lifted up and began to
dream again. The dear gold was like an opiate; it wiped
away memories of hardship and sorrow, it showed life in a
lighter and merrier guise, and the folk laughed at their fears
for the morrow and wondered how they could have thought
life so hard and relentless. The dear gold was pleasing as a
bird on the branch, as a flower on the stem ; the tune it sang
was sweet, the colour it flaunted was bright.

The trade of former days had never brought the excitement
and the fortune that this horse’s hoofs had done. The dust
they had thrown up had fallen a happy, golden shower upon
Shoreham. In every corner and crevice of life the glitter
appeared. That fine red dress on the builder’s wife, and the
feathers that the girls flaunt at their sweethearts, the loud
trousers on the young man’s legs, the cigar in his mouth—all
is Goodwood gold. It glitters in that girl’s ears and on this
girl’s finger.

64

It was said that the town of Shoreham had won two
thousand pounds on the race ; it was said that Mr. Leopold
had won two hundred; it was said that William Latch had
won fifty; it was said that Wall, the coachman, had won
five-and-twenty ; it was said that the Gaffer had won forty
thousand pounds, and for ten miles around nothing was
talked of but the wealth of the Barfields. The county came
to call, and some of the best people walked up and down the
lawn with the Gaffer, listening to his slightest word. A
golden prosperity shone upon the yellow Italian house. At
every hour carriages passed under its elm-trees and swept
round the evergreen oaks. Rumour said that large altera-
tions were going to be made, so that larger and grander
entertainments might be given; an Italian garden was
spoken of, balustrades and terraces, stables were in course of
construction; many more racehorses were bought; they
arrived daily, and the slender creatures, their dark eyes
glancing out of the sight holes in their cloth hoods, walked up
from the station followed by an admiring and commenting
crowd. Drink and expensive living, dancing and singing
upstairs and downstairs, and the jollifications culminated in a
servants’ ball given at the Shoreham Gardens. All the
Woodview servants, excepting Mrs. Latch, were there;
likewise all the servants from Mr. Northcote’s, and those
from Sir George Preston’s—two leading county families. A
great number of servants had come from West Brighton, and
Lancing, and Worthing—altogether between two and three
hundred. ‘“‘ Evening dress is indispensable ” was printed on
‘the cards. The butlers, footmen, cooks, ladies’-maids,
housemaids, and housekeepers hoped by this notification to
keep the ball select. But the restriction seemed to condemn
Esther to play again the part of Cinderella.

65
CHAPTER X

A erour of men turned from the circular buffet when Esther
entered. Miss Mary had given her a white muslin dress,
a square-cut bodice with sleeves reaching to the elbows,
and a blue sash tied round the waist. The remarks as she

3)

passed were, “ A nice, pretty girl.” William was waiting,
and she went away with him on the hop of a vigorous polka.

Many of the dancers had gone to get cool in the gardens
but a few couples had begun to whirl, the women borne along
by force, the men poising their legs into curious geometrical
positions.

Mr. Leopold was very busy dragging men away from the
circular buffet—they must dance whether they knew how or
not. “ The Gaffer has told me partic’lar to see that the ‘ gals ’
all had partners, and just look down that ’ere room; ’alf
of that lot ’aven’t been on their legs yet. “Ere’s a partner for
you,” and the butler pulled a young gamekeeper towards a
young girl who had just arrived. She entered slowly, her
hands clasped across her bosom, her eyes fixed on the ground,
and the strangeness of the spectacle caused Mr. Leopold to
pause. It was whispered that she had never worn a low dress
before, and Grover came to the rescue of her modesty with a
pocket-handkerchief.

But it had been found impossible to restrict the ball to
those who possessed or could obtain an evening suit, and
plenty of check trousers and red neckties were hopping about.
Among the villagers many a touch suggested costume. A
young girl had borrowed her grandmother’s wedding dress,
and a young man wore a canary-coloured waistcoat and a blue
coast-guardsman’s coat of old time. These touches of fancy
and personal taste divided the villagers from the household
servants. The butlers seemed on the watch for side dishes,
and the valets suggested hairbrushes and hot water. Cooks
trailed black silk dresses adorned with wide collars, and

*

66

fastened with gold brooches containing portraits of their
late husbands; and the fine shirt-fronts set off with rich
pearls, the lavender-gloved hands, the delicate faces, expres-
sive of ease and leisure, made Ginger’s two friends—young
Mr. Preston and young Mr. Northcote—noticeable among
this menial, work-a-day crowd. Ginger loved the upper
circles, and now he romped the polka in the most approved
London fashion, his elbows advanced like a yacht’s bow-
sprit, and, his coat-tails flying, he dashed through a group of
tradespeople who were bobbing up and down, hardly advance
ing at all.

Esther was now being spoken of as the belle of the ball;
she had danced with young Mr. Preston and his friends,
and seemed to be enjoying herself, but was now sitting alone,
so Grover called her and asked her why she was not dancing.

William came for the next polka, “just to show there is
no ill feeling,’ he said, and repeated his request half a
dozen times. At last she said :

“You've spoilt all my pleasure in the dancing.”

~“T'm sorry if I’ve done that, Esther. I was jealous,
that’s all,” :

“Jealous! What was you jealous for? What do it
matter what people think, so long as I know I haven’t done no
wrong ?”

But she did not refuse to walk in the garden, where the
night was warm, even oppressive, and the moon hung among
the trees with strange markings on its yellow disc that
momentarily allured the thoughts of the revellers. ‘‘ You
‘must see the arbours and ruins,’’ William said, and he showed
her the theatre and explained its purpose. She listened,
without troubling to understand. Could she believe that she
was not dreaming when they stood on the borders of a beauti-
ful lake full of the shadows of tall trees, and crossed by a
wooden bridge at the narrowest end ?

““ How still the water is ; and the stars, they are lovely !”

“You should see the gardens about three o’clock on

67
Saturday afternoons, when the excursion comes in from
Brighton,” he answered, and they walked on a little farther,
and Esther said, “ What’s these places? Ain’t they dark ?”

“These are arbours, where we ’as shrimps and tea. I'll
take you next Saturday, if you'll come.”

A noisy band of young men, followed by three or four
girls, ran across the bridge, and they stopped suddenly to
argue on which side the boat was to be found. Some chose
the left, some the right ; those who went to the right sent up
a yell of triumph, and from the boat addressed remarks to
their companions, and then they admired the moon and stars.
A song was demanded, and at the end of the second verse
William threw his arm round Esther.

“ Oh, Esther, I do love you.”

She looked at him, her grey eyes fixed in a long inter-
rogation.

“I wonder if that is true. What is there to love in me ?”’

He squeezed her tightly, and continued his protestations.
*““ I do, I do, I do love you, Esther.”

She did not answer, and they walked slowly on. A holly
bush threw a black shadow on the gravel path, and a moment
after the ornamental tin roof of the dancing-room appeared
between the trees.

Even in their short absence a change had come upon the
ball. About the circular buffet numbers of men called for
drinks, and talked loudly of horse-racing. Many were
away at supper, and those that remained were amusing
themselves in a desultory fashion. A tall, lean woman,
dressed like Sarah in white muslin, wearing amber beads
round her neck, was dancing the lancers with the Demon,
and everyone shook with laughter when she whirled the little
fellow round or took him in her arms and carried him across,
William wanted to dance, but Esther was hungry, and led
him away to an adjoining building where cold beef, chicken,
and beer might be had by the strong and adventurous. As
they struggled through the crowd Esther spied three young

68
gentlemen at the other end of the room.

‘Now tell me, if they ask me, the young gents yonder,
to dance, am I to look them straight in the face and say no?”

William considered a moment, and then he said, “‘ I think
you had better dance with them if they asks you ; if you
refuse, Sarah will say it was I who put you up to it.”

‘‘ Let’s have another bottle,” cried Ginger. ‘‘ Come, what
do you say, Mr. Thomas ?”

Mr. Thomas coughed, smiled, and said that Mr. Arthur
wished to see him in the hands of the police. However,
he promised to drink his share. Two more bottles were
sent for, and, stimulated by the wine, the weights that would
probably be assigned to certain horses in the autumn handicap
were discussed. William was very proud of being admitted
into such company, and he listened, a cigar which he did not
like between his teeth, and a glass of champagne in his hand.
Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by the cornet
sounding the first phrase of a favourite waltz, and the tipsy
and the sober hastened away.

- Neither Esther nor William knew how to waltz, but they
tumbled round the room, enjoying themselves immensely.
In the polka and mazurka they got on better, and there were
quadrilles and lancers in which the gentlemen joined, and all
were gay and pleasant; even Sarah’s usually sour face
glowed with cordiality when they joined hands and raced
round the men standing in the middle. In the chain they lost
themselves as in a labyrinth and found their partners un-
expectedly. But the dance of the evening was Sir Roger de
Coverley, and Esther’s usually sober little brain evaporated
in the folly of frolicking up the room, then turning and
frolicking backwards, getting into her place as best she could,
and then starting again. It always appeared to be her turn,
and it was so sweet to see her dear William, and such a
strange excitement to run forward to meet young Mr.

Preston, to curtsey to him, and then run away ; and this over
and over again.

69

“ There’s the dawn.”

Esther looked, and in the whitening doorways she saw the
little jockey staggering about helplessly drunk. The smile
died out of her eyes ; she returned to her true self, to Mrs.
Barfield and the Brethren. She felt that all this dancing,
drinking, and kissing in the arbours was wicked. But Miss
Mary had sent for her, and had told her that she would give
her one of her dresses, and she had not known how to refuse
Miss Mary. Then, if she had not gone, William Sounds
of loud voices were heard in the garden, and the lean woman

in the white muslin repeated some charge. Esther ran out to
see what was happening, and there she witnessed a disgraceful
scene. The lean woman in the muslin dress and the amber
beads accused young Mr. Preston of something which he
denied, and she heard William tell someone that he was
mistaken, that he and his pals didn’t want no rowing at this
*ere ball, and what was more they didn’t mean to have none.

So her heart filled with love for her big William. What
a fine fellow he was! and how handsome were his shoulders
beside that round-shouldered little man whom he so easily
pulled aside! and having crushed out the quarrel, he helped
her on with her jacket, and, hanging on his arm, they returned
home through the little town, Margaret following them with
the railway porter ; Sarah came next with a faithful admirer, a
man with a red beard, whom she had picked up at the ball ;
Grover waddled in the dim rear, embarrassed with the green
silk, which she held high out of the dust of the road.

The barren downs—more tin-like than ever in the shadow-
less light of dawn—stretched across the sunrise from Lancing
to Brighton, and Esther looked at the hills, examining the
landscape intently, remembering the first time she saw it,
and some vague association of colours—the likeness that the
morning landscape bore to the evening landscape, or the
wish to prolong the sweetness of these, the last moments of her
happiness—impelled her to linger and to ask William if the
woods and fields were not beautiful. The too familiar

*

70

landscape awoke in William neither idea nor sensation ;
Esther interested him more, and, while she gazed dreamily
on the hills he admired the white curve of her neck which
showed beneath the unbuttoned jacket. She never looked
prettier than she did that morning, standing on the dusty
road, her white dress crumpled, the ends of the blue sash
hanging beneath the black cloth jacket.

CHAPTER XI

For days nothing was talked of but the ball—how this man
had danced, the bad taste of this woman’s dress, and the
possibility of a marriage. The ball had brought amuse-
ment to all, to Esther it had brought happiness. Her happi-
ness was now visible in her face and audible in her voice, and
Sarah’s ironical allusions to her inability to learn to read no
longer annoyed her, no longer stirred her temper—her love
seemed to induce forgiveness for all and love for everything

In the evenings when their work was done Esther and her
lover lingered about the farm buildings, listening to the
rooks, seeing the lights die in the west ; and in the summer
darkness about nine she tripped by his side when he took the
letters to post. The wheat stacks were thatching, and in the
rickyard, in the carpenter’s shop, and in the warm valleys,
listening to the sheep bells tinkling, they often lay together
talking of love and marriage, till one evening, putting his pipe
aside, William threw his arm round her, whispering that she
-was his wife. The words were delicious in her fainting ears.
She could not put him away, nor could she struggle with him,
though she knew that her fate depended upon her resistance,
and swooning away she awakened in pain, powerless to free
herself... . Soon after thoughts betook themselves on
their painful way, and the stars were shining when he followed
her across the down, beseeching her to listen. But she fled
along the grey road and up the stairs to her room. Margaret

71

was in bed, and awakening a little asked her what had kept
her out so late, She didn’t answer, and hearing Margaret
fall asleep she remembered the supper-table. Sarah, who
had come in late, had sat down by her; William sat on the
opposite side ; Mrs. Latch was in her place, the jockeys were
all together; Mr. Swindles, his snuff-box on the table ;
Margaret and Grover. Everyone had drunk a great deal ;
and Mr. Leopold had gone to the beer cellar many times.
She thought that she remembered feeling a little dizzy when
William asked her to come for a stroll up the hill, and after
passing through the hunting gate they had wandered into the
loneliness of the hills. Over the folded sheep the rooks came
home noisily through a deepening sky. So far she remem-
bered, and she could not remember further ; and all night lay
staring into the darkness, and when Margaret called her in the
morning she was pale and deathlike.

““ Whatever is the matter? You do look ill.”

“I didn’t sleep all last night. My head aches as if it
would drop off. I don’t feel as if I could go to work to-day.”

“ That’s the worst of being a servant. Well or ill, it
makes no matter.’ She turned from the glass, and holding
her hair in her left hand, leaned her head so that she might
pin it. ‘‘ You do look bad,” she remarked dryly.

Never had they been so late! Half past seven, and the
shutters still up! So Margaret said as they hurried down-
stairs, but Esther had no thought for anything but William.
She had seen him cleaning boots in the pantry as they passed,
and knew he was waiting till he heard the baize door which
’ separated the back from the front of the house close. She
heard him coming to meet her, but meeting his mother in the
passage he mumbled some excuse, and retreated. As there
were visitors in the house, he had a good deal to do that
morning, and Esther kept close to Mrs. Latch; but at
breakfast it suddenly became necessary that she should
answer him, and Sarah saw that Esther and William were no
longer friends.

72

“ Well I never! Look at her! She sits there over her
tea-cup as glum as a prayer-meeting.”

‘‘ What is it to you ?” said William.

“What's it to me? I don’t like an ugly face at the break-
fast-table, that’s all.” \

“I wouldn’t be your looking-glass, then. Luckily there
isn’t one here.” .

In the midst of an angry altercation, Esther walked out
of the room. During dinner she hardly spoke at all. After
dinner she went to her room, and did not come down until
she thought William had gone out with the carriage. But
she was too soon, he came running down the passage to meet
her. He laid his hand supplicatingly on her arm.

“Don’t touch me!” she said, and her eyes filled with
dangerous light.

‘Now, Esther! Come, don’t lay it on too thick !””

“Go away. Don’t speak to me!”

“* Just listen one moment, that’s all.”

“Go away. If you don’t, I'll go straight to Mrs. Barfield.”

She passed into the kitchen and shut the door in his face.
He had gone a trifle pale, and after lingering a few moments
he hurried away to the stables, and Esther saw him spring on
the box.

As it was frequent with Esther not. to speak to anyone
with whom she had had a dispute for a week or fifteen days,
her continued sulk excited little suspicion, and the cause of the
quarrel was attributed to some trifle. Sarah said :

““Men are such fools. He is always begging of her to
forgive him. Just look at him—he is still after her, following
her into the wood-shed.”

She rarely answered him a yes or no, but would push past
him, and if he forcibly barred the way she would say, “ Let
me go by, will you? You are interfering with my work.”
And if he still insisted, she spoke of appealing to Mrs. Barfield.
And if her heart sometimes softened, and an insidious thought
whispered that it did not matter since they were going to be

73

married, instinct forced her to repel him ; her instinct was that
she could only win his respect by refusing forgiveness for a
long while. The religion in which her soul moved and lived—
the sternest Protestantism—strengthened and enforced the
original convictions and the prejudices of her race ; and the
natural shame which she had first felt almost disappeared in
the violence of her virtue. She even ceased to fear dis-
covery. What did it matter who knew, since she knew?
She opened her heart to God, and Christ looked down, but He
seemed stern and unforgiving. Her Christ was the Christ
of her forefathers; and He had not forgiven, because she
could not forgive herself. Hers was the unpardonable sin,
the sin which her race had elected to fight against, and she
lay down weary and sullen at heart.

The days seemed to bring no change, and, wearied by
her stubbornness, William said, ‘‘ Let her sulk,’ and he went
out with Sarah; and when Esther saw them go down the
yard her heart said, “ Let him take her out, I don’t want
him.” For she knew it to be a trick to make her jealous,
and that he should dare such a trick angered her still further
against him, and when they met in the garden, where she had
gone with some food for the cats, and he said, “‘ Forgive me,
Esther, I only went out with Sarah because you drove me
wild,” she closed her teeth and refused to answer. But he
stood in her path, determined not to leave her. “I am very
fond of you, Esther, and I will marry you as soon as I have
earned enough or won enough money to give you a com-
fortable ’ome.”’

“ You are a wicked man; I will never marry you.”

“IT am very sorry, Esther. But I am not as bad as you
think for. You let your temper get the better of you. So
soon as I have got a bit of money together-——”

“ If you were a good man you would ask me to marry you

”?

now.
“ T will if you like, but the truth is that I have only three
pounds in the world. I have been unlucky lately ——”

*

He te

“You think of nothing but that wicked betting. Come,
let me pass ; I’m not going to listen to a lot of lies.”

“ After the Leger——”’

“Let me pass. I will not speak to you.”

“But look here, Esther: marriage or no marriage, we
can’t go on in this way: they'll be guessing something
shortly.”

“T shall leave Woodview.” She had hardly spoken the
words when it seemed clear to her that she must leave, and the
sooner the better. “ Come, let me pass. If Mrs. Barfield ——”

An angry look passed over William’s face, and he said :

“I want to act honest with you, and you won't let me.
If ever there was a sulky pig! Sarah’s quite right ; you are
just the sort that would make hell of a man’s life.”

She did not answer, nor did she care what he said; her
business was to make him respect her. She had vaguely
felt from the beginning that this was her only hope, and
now the sensation developed and defined itself into a thought,
. and she decided that she would not yield, but would continue
to affirm her belief that he must acknowledge his sin, and then
come and ask her to marry him. Above all things, Esther
desired to see William repentant. Her natural piety, filling
as it did her entire life, unconsciously made her deem re-
pentance an essential condition of their happiness. How
could they be happy if he were not a God-fearing man?
And she was convinced that she could not marry him until he
had asked forgiveness of the Lord. But rays of passion
pierced her stubborn nature, dissolving it, and her eyes sought
William’s, and her steps strayed from the kitchen when her
ears told her he was in the passage. At last her love went out
freely to William, but when she longed to throw herself in his
arms, saying, “ Yes, I love you; make me your wife,” she
noticed, or thought she noticed, that he avoided her eyes,
and she felt that thoughts of which she knew nothing had
obtained a footing in his mind.

Her heart being intent on him, she was aware of much

75

that escaped the ordinary eye, and she was the first to notice
when the drawing-room bell rang, and Mr. Leopold rose, that
William would say, ‘‘ My legs are the youngest, don’t you
stir.” No one else, not even Sarah, thought William intended
more than to keep in Mr. Leopold’s good graces, but Esther,
although unable to guess the truth, heard the still-tinkling
bell ringing the knell of her hopes. She noted, too, the time
he remained upstairs, and asked herself anxiously what it was
that detained him so long. The weather had turned colder
lately. Could it be that a fire was wanted? In the course of
the afternoon, she heard from Margaret that Miss Mary and
Mrs. Barfield had gone to Southwick to make a call, and
on her way past the stables to the garden she learnt from
one of the stable lads that the Gaffer and Ginger had ridden
over in the morning to Fendon Fair, and had not yet returned.
So it must have been Peggy who rang the bell. Peggy?
And she remembered something she had almost forgotten.
The first Sunday, the first time she went to the library for
family prayers, Peggy was sitting on the little green sofa, and
as Esther passed across the room to her place she saw her cast
a glance of admiration on William’s tall figure, and the
memory of that glance shot up like a flame, and all that night
Esther saw the girl with the pale face and the coal-black hair
looking at her William.

And next_day she waited for the bell that was to call
her lover from her. The afternoon wore away in nervous
apprehensions, and at three o’clock she began to hope she
was mistaken ; at ten minutes past the metal tongue tinkled
and she heard the baize door close behind him. A moment
after all was still in the corridor, and like one sunk to the
knees in quicksands she felt the time had come for a decided
effort. But what could she do? She could not follow him
through the baize door and into the drawing-room. If she
got there, what then? she might be mistaken. But no, there
was something in it, her heart told her so, and she began to
remember that he no longer sought her forgiveness; he

*

76
seemed to avoid her. And now her temper and pride fell
from her, and she lived conscious only of him, noting every
sign, and intensely, all that related to him, divining all his
thoughts, and meeting him in the passage when he least
expected her. ; .,

“I’m always getting in your way,” she said, with a low,
nervous laugh.

““No harm in that ; we’re fellow-servants ; there must be
give and take.”

They stood looking at each other, with an explanation
on their lips; but at that moment the drawing-room bell
rang above their heads, and William said, ‘‘ I must answer that
bell.” And before she could say another word he had passed
through the baize door.

Sarah remarked that William seemed to spend a great deal
of his time in the drawing-room, and Esther started out of her
moodiness, and, speaking instinctively, she said, “I don’t
think much of ladies who go after their servants.”

Everybody looked up. Mrs. Latch laid her carving-knife
_ on the meat and fixed her eyes on her son.

“‘ Lady ?” said Sarah; “she’s no lady! Her mother used
to mop out the yard before she was ‘ churched.’ ”

“T can tell you what,” said William, “ you had better
mind what you are a-saying of, for if any of your talk got wind
upstairs vou'd lose yer situation, and it might be some time
before yer got another !”

“ Lose my situation! and a good job, too. I shall always
be able to suit mesel’; don’t you fear about me. But if it
comes to talking about situations, I can tell you that you are
more likely to get the sack than I am.”

William hesitated, and, while he sought for a spiteful
answer, Mr. Leopold advised that nothing more should be
said, and his eyes went to the jockey-boys who were ex-
changing grins; Sarah sulked; Mr. Swindles pursed up his
mouth, and fell to thinking that it would be no easy matter
to keep Miss Peggy out of the gossip in the “‘ Red Lion,” and

77
that it was a dead cert. that in the next day or two she would
be the talk of the town.

At four o’clock Esther saw Mrs. Barfield and the young
ladies walk across the yard towards the garden, and as she
had to go soon after to the wood-shed she got a peep of
Peggy escaping through the wicket. “ Going back to the
drawing-room,” Esther said, and she returned to the kitchen
and stood waiting for the bell to ring. Nor had she to wait
long. The bell tinkled a moment after, but so faintly that
Esther said, “ She only just touched it ; it is a signal; he was
on the lookout for it ; she didn’t want anyone else to hear.”

And then Esther remembered Peggy’s fortune, some
thousands of pounds. There was no hope for her. How
could there be? Her poor little wages and her print dress !
He would never look at her again! But oh! how cruel and
wicked it was! How could one who had so much come to
steal from one who had so little? Oh, it was very cruel and
very wicked, and no good would come of it either to her or to
him ; of that she felt quite sure. For God always punished
the wicked. She knew he did not love Peggy. It was sin and
shame; and after his promises—after what had happened.
Never would she have believed him to be so false. Then her
thought turned to passionate hatred of the girl who was
robbing her. He had gone through that baize door, and no
doubt was sitting by Peggy in the new drawing-room. He
had gone where she could not follow. He had gone where the
grand folk lived in idleness, in the sinfulness of the world
and the flesh, eating and gambling, thinking of nothing else,
with servants to wait on them, obeying their orders and saving
them from every trouble. She knew that these fine folk
thought servants inferior beings. But they were all of the
same flesh and blood. Peggy wore a fine dress, but she was
no better ; take off her dress and they were the same, woman
to woman.

She pushed through the door and walked down the passage.
A few steps brought her to the foot of a polished oak staircase,

78

lit by a large window ‘in coloured glass, on either side of
which there were statues. The staircase sloped slowly to an
imposing landing set out with columns and blue vases and
embroidered curtains. The girl saw these things vaguely,
and she was conscious of a profusion of rugs, matting, and
bright doors, and of her inability to decide which door was the
drawing-room door—the drawing-room of which she had
heard so much, and where even now, amid gold furniture and
flower-scented air, William listened to the wicked woman who
had tempted him away from her. A door opened, William
appeared, and seeing Esther he seemed uncertain whether to
draw back or come forward; and then his face caught an
expression of mixed fear and anger, and coming rapidly
towards her he said :

“What are you doing here?” Then changing his voice,
“This is against the rules of the ’ouse.”

“T want to see her.”

“ Anything else?, What do you want to say to her?
I won't have it, I tell you. What do you mean by spying after
-me? That’s your game, is it ?”

“ I want to speak to her.”

With averted face the young lady fled up the oak stair-
case, her handkerchief to her lips. Esther made a movement
as if to follow, but William prevented her. She turned and
walked down the passage and entered the kitchen. Her face
was one white tint, her short, strong arms hung tremblingly,
and William saw that it would be better to temporise.

“Now look here, Esther,” he said, ‘‘ you ought to be
damned thankful to me for having stopped you from making a
fool of yourself.”

Esther’s eyelids quivered, and then her eyes dilated.

““ Now, if Miss Margaret,” continued William, ‘“ had. a

“Go away! go away! I am——” At that moment the
steel of a large, sharp-pointed knife lying on the table caught

her eye. She snatched it up, and seeing blood she rushed at
him.

79

William retreated from her, and Mrs. Latch, coming
suddenly in, caught her arm. Esther threw the knife; it
struck the wall, falling with a rattle on the meat screen.
She rushed to secure it, but her strength gave way, and she
fell back in a dead faint.

“* What have you been doing to the girl ?”’ said Mrs. Latch.

“Nothing, mother. We had a few words, that was all.
She said I shouldn’t go out with Sarah.”

“That is not true. I can read the lie in your face; a
girl doesn’t take up a knife unless a man wellnigh drives her
mad.”

“ That’s right ; always side against your son! Ifyou don’t
believe me, get what you can out of her yourself.”

Mrs. Latch saw him pass down the yard towards the stables,
and when Esther opened her eyes she looked at Mrs. Latch
questioningly, unable to understand why the old woman was
standing by her.

“ Are you better now, dear ?”

“Yes, but—but what ” Then remembrance struggled
back. “Is he gone? Did I strike him? I remember
that I *

“ You didn’t hurt him.”

“TI don’t want to see him again. Far better not. I was
mad. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

** You will tell me about it another time, dear.”

“* Where is he ? tell me that ; I must know.”

“‘ Gone to the stables, I think ; but you must not go after
him—you'll see him to-morrow.”

“‘ T do not want to go after him ; but he isn’t hurt? That’s
what I want to know.”

“No, he isn’t hurt. You're getting stronger. Lean on
me. You'll begin to feel better when you are in bed. I'll

bring you up your tea.”

“Yes, I shall be all right presently. But how’ll you
manage to get the dinner ?”

“ Don’t you worry about that ; you go upstairs and lie down.”

80

A desolate hope floated over the surface of her brain that
William might be brought back to her.

In the evening the kitchen was full of people: Margaret,
Sarah, and Grover were there, and she heard that immedi-
ately after lunch Mr. Leopold had been sent for, and the
Gaffer had instructed him to pay William a month’s wages,
and see that he left the house that very instant. Sarah,
Margaret, and Grover watched Esther’s face and were
surprised at her indifference. She even seemed pleased.
She was pleased: nothing better could have happened.
William was now separated from her rival, and released from
her bad influence he would return to his real love. At the
first sign she would go to him, she would forgive him. But-a
little later, when the dishes came down from the dining-room,
it was whispered that Peggy was not there.

Later in the evening, when the servants were going to
bed, it became known that she had taken the six o’clock
to Brighton. Esther turned from the foot of the stair with
a wild look. Margaret caught her.

“It’s no use, dear ; you can do nothing to-night.”

“ T can walk to Brighton.”

“No you can’t; you don’t know the way, and even if
you did you don’t know where they are.”

Neither Sarah nor Grover made any remark, and in silence
the servants went to their rooms. Margaret closed the door
and turned to look at Esther, who had fallen on the chair, her
eyes fixed in vacancy.

“I know what it is; I was the same when Jim Story got
the sack. It seems as if you couldn’t live through it, and yet
you do somehow.”

“I wonder if they'll marry.”

“ Most likely. She has a lot of money.”

Two days after a cab stood in the yard in front of the
kitchen window. Peggy’s luggage was piled upon it—two
large, handsome basket boxes with the initials painted on
them: and, kneeling on the box-seat, the coachman leaned

81

over the roof making room for another—a small box covered
with red cowhide and tied with a rope. And the little box
in its poor simplicity brought William back to Esther,
whelming her for a moment in so acute a sense of her loss that
she had to leave the kitchen. She went into the scullery,
drew the door after her, sat down, and hid her face in her
apron. A stifled sob or two, and then she recovered her
habitual gravity of expression, and continued her work as if
nothing had happened.

CHAPTER XII

“Tuey are just crazy about it upstairs. Ginger and the
Gaffer are the worst. They say they had better sell the
place and build another house somewhere else. None of
the county people will call on them now—and just as they
were beginning to get on so well! Miss Mary, too, is terrible
cut up about it; she says it will interfere with her prospects,
and that Ginger has nothing to do now but to marry the
kitchenmaid to complete the ruin of the Barfields.”

“Miss Mary is far too kind to say anything to wound
another’s feelings. It was only a nasty old deceitful ae
like yourself who could think of such a thing.”

“ Eh, you got it there, my lady,” said Sarah, who had had a
difference with Grover, and was anxious to avenge it.

Grover looked at Sarah in astonishment, and her look
clearly said, ‘Is everyone going to side with that little
kitchenmaid ?”

Then, to flatter Mrs. Latch, Sarah spoke of the position
the Latches had held three generations ago; the Barfields
were then nobodies ; they had nothing even now but their
money, and that had come out of a livery stable. ‘‘ And it
shows, too; just compare Ginger with young Preston or
young Northcote. Anyone could tell the difference.”

Esther listened with an unmoved face and a heavy ache

82

in her heart. She had now not an enemy nor yet an op-
ponent; the cause of rivalry and jealousy being removed,
all were sorry for her. They recognised that she had suffered
and was suffering, and, seeing none but friends about her,
she was led to think how happy she might have been in this
beautiful house if it had not been for William. She loved her
work, for she was working for those she loved. She could
imagine no life happier than hers might have been. But she
had sinned, and the Lord had punished her for sin, and she
must bear her punishment uncomplainingly, giving Him
thanks that He had imposed no heavier one upon her.

Such reflection was the substance of Esther’s mind for
three months after William’s departure ; and in the after-
noons, about three o’clock, when her work paused, Esther’s
thoughts would congregate and settle on the great mis
fortune of her life—William’s desertion.

It was one afternoon at the beginning of December ;
Mrs. Latch had gone upstairs to lie down, and Esther had
drawn her chair towards the fire ; a broken-down racehorse,
his legs bandaged from his knees to his fetlocks, had passed up
the yard; he was going for walking exercise on the downs,
and when the sound of his hoofs had died away Esther was
quite alone. She sat on her wooden chair facing the wide
kitchen window. She had advanced one foot on the iron
fender ; her head leaned back, rested on her hand. She did
not think—her mind was lost in vague sensation of William,
and it was in this death of active memory that something
awoke within her, something that seemed to her like a flutter
of wings ; her heart seemed to drop from its socket, and she
nearly fainted away, but recovering herself she stood by the
kitchen table, a deathlike pallor over her face, with drops of
sweat on her forehead. The truth was borne in upon her ;
she foresaw the drama that awaited her, from which nothing
could free her, which she would have to live through hour by
hour. And it seemed so dreadful that she thought her brain
must give way. She would have to leave Woodview. Oh,

83
the shame of confession! Mrs. Barfield, who had been so
good to her and who thought so highly of her. Her father
would not have her at home; she would be homeless in
London. No hope of. obtaining a situation. They would
send her away without a character, homeless in London, and
every month her position growing more desperate.

A sickly faintness crept through her. The flesh had
come to the relief of the spirit ; and she sank upon her chair,
almost unconscious, sick, it seemed, to death, and she rose
from the chair wiping her forehead slowly with her apron.
She might be mistaken. And she hid her face in her hands,
and then, falling on her knees, her arms thrown forward upon
the table, she prayed for strength to walk without flinching
under any cross that He had thought fit to lay upon her.

There was still the hope that she might be mistaken ;
and this hope lasted for one week, for two, but at the end
of the third week it perished, and she abandoned herself
in prayer. She prayed for strength to endure with courage
what she now knew she must endure, and she prayed for
light to guide her in her present decision. Mrs. Barfield,
however much she might pity her, could not keep her once
she knew the truth, whereas none might know the truth if she
did not tell it. She might remain at Woodview earning
another quarter’s wages ; the first she had spent on boots and
clothes, the second she had just been paid. If she stayed on
for another quarter she would have eight pounds, and with
that money, and much less time to keep herself, she might be
able to pull through. But would she be able to go three
whole months without anyone seeing how big she was getting,
till her next wages came due? She must risk it.

She went about her work, leaving nothing undone, and
doing everything so well that no fault could be found, her
aim being to escape notice ; and as she perceived no bodily
change in herself during the fifth month she began to think
she might risk another month. Another month passed, and
Esther was preparing for departure, when a whisper went

84
round, and before she’ could take steps to leave she was told
that Mrs. Barfield wished to see her in the library. Esther
turned a little pale, and the expression of her face altered ;
it seemed to her impossible to go before Mrs. Barfield and
admit her shame. Margaret, who was standing near, and
saw what was passing in her mind, said :

“Pull yourself together, Esther. You know the Saint—
she’s not a bad sort. Like all the real good ones, she is kind
enough to the faults of others.”’

“What's this? What’s the matter with Esther?” said
Mrs. Latch, who had not yet heard of Esther’s misfortune.

“ T’ll tell you presently, Mrs. Latch. Go, dear, get it over.”

Esther hurried down the passage and passed through
the baize door without further thought. She had then but to
turn to the left and a few steps would bring her to the library
door. The room was already present in her mind. She could
see it. The dim light, the little green sofa, the round table
covered with books, the piano at the back, the parrot in the
corner, and the canaries in the window. She knocked at the
door. The well-known voice said, “Come in.’”’ She turned
the handle, and found herself alone with her mistress. Mrs.
Barfield laid down the book she was reading, and looked up.
She did not look as angry as Esther had imagined, but her
voice was harder than usual.

“Ts this true, Esther ?”

Esther hung down her head. She could not speak at first ;
then she said, ‘“‘ Yes.”

“T thought you were a good girl, Esther.”

“So did I, ma’am.”’

Mrs. Barfield looked at the girl quickly, hesitated a moment,
and then said :

“ And all this time—how long is it ?”

““ Nearly seven months, ma’am.”’

“ And all this time you were deceiving us.”

“I was three months gone before I knew it myself,
ma'am.”

85

“Three months! Then for three months you have knelt
every Sunday in prayer in this room, for twelve Sundays you
sat by me learning to read, and you never said a word ?”

_ A certain harshness ,in Mrs. Barfield’s voice awakened a
rebellious spirit in Esther, and a lowering expression
gathered above her eyes. She said:

“ Had I told you, you would have sent me away there and
then. I had only a quarter’s wages, and should have starved
or gone and drowned myself.”

“ I’m sorry to hear you speak like that, Esther.”

“ It’s trouble that makes me, ma’am, and I have had a great
deal.”

“Why did you not confide in me? I have not shown
myself cruel to you, have I ?”’

“No, indeed, ma’am. You are the best mistress a servant
ever had, bu

** But what ?”

“Why, ma’am, it is this way. I hated being deceitful—
indeed I did. But I can no longer think of myself. There is
another to think for now.”

There was in Mrs. Barfield’s look something akin to admira-
tion, and she felt she had not been wholly wrong in her
estimate of the girl’s character. She said, and in a different

2?

intonation :

“Perhaps you were right, Esther. I couldn’t have kept
you on, on account of the bad example to the younger servants
I might have helped you with money. But six months alone
in London and in your condition! I am glad you didn’t tell
' me, Esther ; and as you say there is another to think of now:
I hope you will never neglect your child, if God give it to you
alive.”

* T hope not, ma’am ; I shall try and do my best.”

“My poor girl! my poor girl! you do not know what
trial is in store for you. A girl like you, and only twenty !
Oh, it is a shame! May God give you courage to bear
up in your adversity !”

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‘‘ I know there is many a hard time before me, but I have
prayed for strength, and God will give me strength, and I
must not complain. My case is not so bad as many another;
I have nearly eight pounds. I shall get on, ma’am—that is to
say, if you will stand by me and not refuse me a character.”

“Can I give you a character? You were tempted, you
were led into temptation. I ought to have watched over you
better—mine is the responsibility. Tell me, it was not your
fault.”

“It is always a woman’s fault, ma’am. But he should not
have deserted me as he did—that’s the only thing I reproach
him with; the rest was my fault—I shouldn’t have touched
the second glass of ale. Besides, I was in love with him, and
you know what that is. I thought no harm, and I let him kiss
me. He used to take me out for walks on the hill and round
the farm, He told me he loved me, and would make me his
wife—that’s how it was. Afterwards he asked me to wait till
after the Leger, and that riled me, and I knew then how
wicked I had been. I would not go out with him or speak to
him any more; and while our quarrel was going on Miss
Peggy went after him, and that’s how I got left.”

At the mention of Peggy’s name a cloud passed over Mrs.
Barfield’s face. ‘‘ You have been shamefully treated, my
poor child. I knew nothing of all this. So he said he would
marry you if he won his bet on the Leger? Oh, that betting !
I know that nothing else is thought of here—upstairs and
downstairs, the whole place is poisoned with it—and it is the
fault of——” Mrs. Barfield walked hurriedly across the
room, but when she turned the sight of Esther provoked her
into speech. “I have seen it all my life, nothing else, and I
have seen nothing come of it but sin and sorrow. You are not
the first victim. Ah, what ruin, what misery, what death !”

Mrs. Barfield covered her face with her hands, as if to shut
out the memories that crowded upon her.

“T think, ma’am, if you will excuse my saying so, that a
great deal of harm do come from this betting on racehorses.

87

The day when you was all away at Goodwood when the horse
won, I went down to see what the sea was like here ; for I was
brought up by the seaside, at Barnstaple. On the beach I
met Mrs. Leopold—that is to say, Mrs. Randal, John’s wife ;
she seemed to be in great trouble, she looked that melancholy,
and for company’s sake asked me to come home to tea with
her. She was in that state of mind, ma’am, that she forgot the
teaspoons were in pawn, and when she couldn’t give me one
she broke down, and told me what her troubles had been.”

“ What did she tell you, Esther ?”

“T hardly remember, ma’am, but it was all the same
thing—ruin if the horse didn’t win, and more betting if
he did. But she said they never had been in such a fix as the
day Silver Braid won If he had been beaten they would
have been thrown out on the street, and from what I have
heard the best half of the town, too.”

“So that little man has suffered. I thought he was
wiser than the rest. This house has been the ruin of the
neighbourhood ; we have dispensed vice instead of righteous-
ness.” Walking towards the window, Mrs. Barfield con-
tinued to talk to herself. “I have struggled against the evil
all my life, and without result. How much more misery shall
I see come of it?” Turning then to Esther, she said: ‘‘ Yes,
the betting is an evil—one from which many have suffered ;
but the question is now about yourself, Esther. How much
money have you ?”

““T have about eight pounds, ma’am.”

“ And how much do you reckon will see you through it ?”

“T don’t know, ma’am; I have no experience. I think
father will let me stay at home if I can pay my way. I could
manage easily on seven shillings a week. When my time
comes I shall go to the hospital.”

While Esther spoke Mrs. Barfield reckoned that Esther
would need about ten pounds. Her train fare, two months’
board at seven shillings a week, the room she would have to
take near the hospital before her confinement, and to which

. G

88

she would return with her baby—all these would run to about
four or five pounds. There would be baby’s clothes to buy.
If she gave four pounds, Esther would be able to manage.
Mrs. Barfield went over to an old-fashioned escritoire, and,
pulling out some small drawers, took from one some paper
packages, which she unfolded. “ Now, my girl, look here.
I’m going to give you four pounds. Twelve should see you
through your trouble. You have been a good servant,
Esther ; I like you very much, and am truly sorry to part with
you. You will write and tell me how you are getting on and
if one of these days you want a place, and I have one to give
you, I shall be glad to take you back.”

If harshness deadened, she was easily moved by kindness,
and she longed to throw herself at her mistress’s feet ; but her
nature did not admit of such effusion, and she said, in her
blunt English way :

“You are far too good, ma’am. I do not deserve such
treatment—I know I don’t.”

‘“‘Say no more, Esther. I hope that the Lord may give
you strength to bear your cross. Now go and pack up your
box. But, Esther, do you feel your sin? Can you truly say
honestly before God that you repent ?”

“Yes, ma’am, I think I can say all that.”

“Then, Esther, come and kneel down and pray to God to
give you strength in the future to stand against temptation.”

Mrs. Barfield took Esther’s hand, and they knelt down by
the round table, leaning their hands on its edge. And, in a
high, clear voice, Mrs. Barfield prayed aloud, Esther repeating
the words after her :

“ Dear Lord, Thou knowest all things—knowest how Thy
servant has strayed and has fallen into sin. But Thou hast
said there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth
than over ninety and nine just men. Therefore, Lord,
kneeling here before Thee, we pray that this poor girl, who
repents of the evil she has done, may be strengthened in Thy
mercy to stand firm against temptation. Forgive her sin,

89
‘even as Thou forgavest the woman of Samaria. Give her
strength to walk uprightly before Thee, and give her strength
to bear the pain and the suffering that lie before her.”

The women rose from-their knees and stood looking at each
other. Esther’s eyes were full of tears. Without speaking
she turned to go.

“One word more, Esther. You asked me just now for a
character ; I hesitated, but it seems to me now that it would
be wrong to refuse. If I did you might never get a place,
and then it would be impossible to say what might happen.
I am not certain that I am doing right, but I know what it
means to refuse to give a servant a character, and I can’t take
upon myself the responsibility.”

Mrs. Barfield wrote out a character for Esther, in which
she described her as an honest, hard-working girl. She
paused at the word “ reliable,’ and wrote instead, “‘ I believe
her to be at heart a thoroughly religious girl.”

Esther went upstairs to pack her box, and when she came
down she found all the women in the kitchen; evidently
they were waiting for her. Coming forward, Sarah said :

““T hope we shall part friends, Esther; any quarrels we
may have had—— There’s no ill feeling now, is there ?”

“I bear no one any ill feeling. We have been friends
these last months ; indeed, everyone has been very kind to
me.” And Esther kissed Sarah on both cheeks.

“I’m sure we're all sorry to lose you,” said Margaret,
pressing forward, ‘“‘ and we hope you'll write and let us know

how you are getting on.”

Margaret, who was a tender-hearted girl, began to cry,
and, kissing Esther, she declared that she had never got on
with a girl who slept in her room so well before. Esther
shook hands with Grover, and then her eyes met Mrs. Latch’s.
The old woman took her in her arms.

“It breaks my heart to think that one belonging to me
should have done you such a wrong But if you want
for anything let me know, and you shall have it. You

«

90
will want money ; I have some here for you.”

“Thank you, thank you, but I have all I want. Mrs.
Barfield has been very good to me.”

The babbling of so many voices drew Mr. Leopold from the
pantry ; he came with a glass of beer in his hand, and this
suggested a toast to Sarah. “ Let’s drink baby’s health,”
she said. ‘‘ Mr. Leopold won’t refuse us the beer.”

The idea provoked some good-natured laughter, and
Esther hid her face in her hands and tried to get away.
But Margaret would not allow her. “‘ What nonsense !’’
she said. ‘ We don’t think any the worse of you ; why, that’s
an accident that might happen to any of us.”

_‘T hope not,” said Esther.

The jug of beer was finished ; she was kissed and hugged
again, some tears were shed, and Esther walked down the
yard through the stables.

The avenue was full of wind and rain ; the branches creaked
dolefully overhead; and the drenched lane, and the bare
fields fringed with white mist, were a landscape in keeping
with the girl’s soul. She had come to Woodview to escape
from a home become unbearable, and was going back to it in
circumstances a hundred times worse than those in which
she had left it ; all the grief and trouble that girls of her class
have to bear gathered in her heart when she looked out of the
railway-carriage window and saw for the last time the stiff
plantations on the downs and the angles of the Italian house
between the trees. She drew her handkerchief from her
jacket to hide her tears from her fellow-travellers in the
carriage.

CHAPTER XIII
Sue had left her box in the cloak-room at Victoria, for she

did not know if her father would have her at home. Her
mother would tell her what she thought, but no one could

91

say for certain what he would do. If she brought the box
he might fling it after her into the street ; better come with-
out it, even if she had to go back through the wet to fetch it.
At that moment another gust drove the rain violently over
her, forcing it through her boots. The sky was a tint of
ashen grey, and all the low brick buildings were veiled in
vapour ; the rough roadway was full of pools, and nothing was
heard but the melancholy bell of the tramear. She hesitated,
not wishing to spend a penny unnecessarily, but remembering
that a penny wise is often a pound foolish she called to the
driver and climbed in. The car passed by the little brick
street where the Saunders lived, and when Esther pushed the
door open she could see into the kitchen and overheard the
voices of the children. Mrs. Saunders was sweeping down the
stairs, but at the sound of footsteps she ceased to bang the
broom, and, stooping till her head looked over the banisters,
she cried :

“* Who is it ?”

““ Me, mother.”

“What! You, Esther ?”

“*'Yes, mother.”

Mrs. Saunders hastened down, and, leaning the broom
against the wall, she took her daughter in her arms and
kissed her. “ Well, this is nice to see you again, after this
long while. But you are looking a bit poorly, Esther.”
Then her face changed expression. ‘‘ What has happened ?
Have you lost your situation ?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Oh, I am that sorry, for we thought you was so ’appy
there and liked your mistress above all those you ’ad ever
met with. Did you lose your temper and answer her back ?
They is often trying, I know that, and your own temper—
you was never very sure of it.”

“ T’ve no fault to find with my mistress ; she is the kindest
in the world—none better,—and my temper—it wasn’t that

mother——’

92

“ My own darling, tell me——”

Esther paused. The children had ceased talking in the
kitchen, and the front door was open. ‘‘ Come into the
parlour. We can talk quietly there. When do you expect
father home?” —

“ Not for the best part of a couple of hours yet.”

Mrs. Saunders waited until Esther had closed the front
door. Then they went into the parlour and sat down side
by side on the little horsehair sofa placed against the wall
facing the window. The anxiety in their hearts betrayed
itself on their faces.

“ T had to leave, mother. I’m seven months gone.”

“‘ Oh, Esther, Esther, I can’t believe it !”

““ Yes, mother, it is quite true.”

She hurried through her story, and when her mother
questioned her regarding details, she said :

““ Mother, what does it matter? I don’t care to talk about
it more than I can help.” .

Tears had begun to roll down Mrs. Saunders’ cheeks,
and when she wiped them away with the corner of her apron,
Esther heard a sob. +

“Don’t cry, mother,” said Esther. “I have been very
wicked, I know, but God will be good tome. I always pray
to Him, just as you taught me to do, and I daresay I shall get
through my trouble somehow.”

“Your father will never let you stop ’ere ; ’e’ll say, just as
afore, that there be too many mouths to feed as it is.”

“T don’t want him to keep me for nothing—I know well
enough if I did that ’e’d put me outside quick enough. But I
can pay my way. I earned good money while I was with the
Barfields, and though she did tell me I must go, Mrs. Barfield
—the Saint they call her, and she is a saint if ever there was
one—gave me four pounds to see me, as she said, through my
trouble. I’ve better than eleven pound. Don’t cry, mother
dear ; crying won’t do no good, and I want you to help me.
So long as the money holds out I can get a lodging anywhere,

93
but I’d like to be near you; and father might be glad to let
me have the parlour and my food for ten or eleven shillings a
week—lI could afford as much as that, and he never was the
man to turn good money from his door. Do yer think he
will ?”

“I dunno, dearie; ‘tis hard to say what ’e’ll do; he’s a
‘ard man to live with. I’ve ’ad a terrible time of it lately,
and them babies allus coming. Ah, we poor women have
more than our right to bear with !”

“Poor mother!’ said Esther, and, taking her mother’s
hand in hers, she passed her arm round her, drew her closer,
and kissed her. ‘“‘ I know what he was; is he any worse
now ?”

“Well, I think he drinks more, and is even rougher. It
was only the other day, just as I was attending to his dinner—
it was a nice piece of steak, and it looked so nice that I cut off
a weeny piece to taste. He sees me do it, and he cries out,
“Now then, guts, what are you interfering with my dinner
for?’ I says, ‘I only cut off a tiny piece to taste.’ ‘ Well,
then, taste that,’ he says, and strikes me clean between the
eyes. Ah, yes, lucky for you to be in service; you've half
forgot by now what we’ve to put up with ’ere.”’

“You was always too soft with him, mother; he never
touched me since I dashed the hot water in his face.”

“Sometimes I thinks I can bear it no longer, Esther,
and long to go and drown meself. Jenny and Julia—you
remember little Julia; she ’as grown up such a big girl,
and is getting on so well—they are both at work now in the
kitchen. Johnnie gives us a deal of trouble; he can’t tell
a word of truth ; father took off his strap the other day and
beat him dreadful, but it ain’t no use. If it wasn’t for Jenny
and Julia I don’t think we should ever make both ends meet ;
but they works all day at the dogs, and at the warehouse their
dogs is said to be neater and more lifelike than any other.
Their poor fingers is worn away cramming the paper into the
moulds; but they never complains, no more shouldn’t I if

-

94

he was a bit gentler and didn’t take more than half of what he
earns to the public-’ouse. I was glad you was away, Esther,
for you allus was of an ’asty temper and couldn’t ’ave borne it.
I don’t want to make my troubles seem worse than they be,
but sometimes I think I will break up, ‘special when I get to
thinking what wil become of us and all them children, money
growing less and expenses increasing. I haven't told yer,
but I daresay you have noticed that another one is coming.
It is the children that breaks us poor women down altogether.
Ah, well, yours be the hardest trouble, but you must put a
brave face on it ; we'll do the best we can ; none of us can say
no more.”

Mrs. Saunders wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron 3
and without further words mother and daughter went into the
kitchen—a long, low room, with one window looking on a
small back-yard, at the back of which was the coal-hole, the
dust-bin, and small outhouse. And at the long kitchen
table, seated on a bench fastened to the wall, Jenny and Julia
were at work making toy dogs, some no larger than your
hand, others almost as big as a small poodle, finishing the last
few that remained of the order they had received from their
shop. They were helped by three small children seated on
the floor, who handed them the brown paper which was
speedily pressed into iron moulds, pasted down and tucked in
with strong dexterous fingers.

“Why, it is Esther!” said Jenny, the elder girl. ‘“ And,
lorks, ain’t she grand !—quite the lady. Why, we hardly
knowed yer.” And having kissed their sister circumspectly,
they stood lost in contemplation till Esther took Harry, a fine
little boy of four, up in her arms, and asked him if he remem-
bered her.

“ Naw, I don’t think Ido. Will oo put me down ?”

“But you do, Lizzie?” she said, addressing a girl of seven,
whose bright red hair shone like a lamp in the gathering twilight.

“ Yes, you're my big sister ; you’ve been away this year or
more in service.”

95

“And you, Maggie, do you remember me too ?”

Maggie at first seemed doubtful, but after a moment’s
reflection she nodded her head vigorously

“Come, Esther, see how Julia is getting on,” said Mrs
Saunders; ‘“‘ she makes her dogs nearly as fast as Jenny.
She is still a bit careless in drawing the paper into the moulds.
Well, just as I was speaking of it: ’ere’s a dog with one
shoulder just ’arf the size of the other.”

“Oh, mother, I’m sure nobody’d never know the
difference.”

““Wouldn’t know the difference! Just look at the hani-
mal! Isit natural? Sich carelessness I never seed.”

“ Esther, just look at Julia’s dog,” cried Jenny, “ ’e ’asn’t
got no more than ’arf a shoulder. It’s lucky mother saw it,
for if the manager’d seen it he’d have found something wrong
with I don’t know ’ow many more, and docked us maybe a
shilling or more on the week’s work.”

Julia began to cry.

“* Jenny is always down onme. She is jealous just because
mother said I worked as fast as she did. If her work was
overhauled. 3

“There are all my dogs there on the right-hand side of
the dresser—I always ’as the right for my dogs—and if you
find one there with an uneven shoulder I’II——”’

““ Jenny is so fat that she likes everything like ’erself ;
that’s why she stuffs so much paper into her dogs.”

It was little Ethel speaking from her corner, and her
explanation of the excellence of Jenny’s dogs, given with
stolid childish gravity in the interval of tearing a large sheet
of brown paper, made them laugh. But in the midst of the
laughter thought of her great trouble came upon Esther.
Mrs. Saunders noticed this, and, to make an end of the merri-
ment, she took Julia’s dog and told her that it must be put
into the mould again She cut the skin away, and helped to
force the stiff paper over the edge of the mould.

“Now,” she said, “it is a dog; both shoulders is equal,

96
and if it was a real dog he could walk.”

“ Oh, bother !”’ cried Jenny, “I shan’t be able to finish
my last dozen this evening. I ’ave no more buttons for
the eyes, and the black pins that Julia is a-using of for her
little one won’t do for this size.” 2

‘Won't they give yer any at the shop? I was counting
on the money they would bring to finish the week with.”

‘““No, we can’t get no buttons in the shop: that’s ome
work, they says; and even if they ’ad them they wouldn’t
let us put them in there. That’s ’ome work, they says to
everything ; they’re a disagreeable lot.”

“ But ’aven’t you got sixpence, mother? and I’ll run and
get them.”

“No, I’ve run short.”

“ But,” said Esther, ‘“ I'll give you sixpence to get your
buttons with.”

“Yes, that’s it; give us sixpence, and yer shall have it
back to-morrow if you are ere. How long are yer up for?
If not, we'll send it.”’

“Tm not going back just yet.”

“* What, ’ave yer lost yer situation ?”

““No, no,” said Mrs. Saunders, ‘‘ Esther ain’t well—she
‘as come up for ’er ’ealth; take the sixpence and run
along.”

““May I go too?” said Julia. ‘‘ I’ve been at work since
eight, and I’ve only a few more dogs to do.”

“Yes, you may go with your sister. Run along; don’t
bother me any more, I’ve got to get your father’s supper.”

When Jenny and Julia had left, Esther and Mrs. Saunders
could talk freely, the other children being too young to
understand.

“There is times when ’e is well enough,” said Mrs.
Saunders, “and others when ’e is that awful. It is ’ard
to know ’ow to get ’im, but ’e is to be got if we only knew ’ow.
Sometimes ’tis most surprising how easy ’e do take things,
and at others—well, as about that piece of steak that I was

97
a-telling you of. Should you catch him in that humour ’e’s
as like as not to take ye by the shoulder and put you out ;
but if he be in a good humour ’e’s as like as not to say, ‘ Well,
my gal, make yerself at ome.’ ”

“ He can but turn me out. I'll leave yer to speak to ’im,
mother.”

“Tl do my best, but I don’t answer for nothing. A nice
bit of supper do make a difference in ‘im, and as ill luck will
’ave it, I’ve nothing but a rasher, whereas if I only ’ad a bit of
steak ’e’d brighten up the moment he clapt eyes on it and
become more cheerful.”

“ But, mother, if you think it will make a difference I can
easily slip round to the butcher’s and——”

“Yes ; get half a pound, and when it’s nicely cooked and
inside him it’ll make all the difference. That will please him.
But I don’t like to see you spending your money—money that
you'll want badly.”

“ Tt can’t be helped, mother. I shan’t be above a minute or
two away, and I'll bring back a pint of porter with the steak.”’

Coming back she met Jenny and Julia, and when she told
them her purchases they remarked significantly that they
were now quite sure of a pleasant evening.

“When he’s done eating ’e’ll go out to smoke his pipe with
some of his chaps,” said Jenny, “ and we shall have the ’ouse
to ourselves, and yer can tell us all about your situation.
They keeps a butler and a footman, don’t they? They must
be grand folk. And what was the footman like? Was he
very handsome? I’ve ’eard that they all is.”

“‘ And you'll show us yer dresses, won’t you ?” said Julia.
‘“‘ How many ’ave you got, and ’ow did yer manage to save up
enough money to buy such beauties, if they’re all like that ?”’

“‘ This dress was given to me by Miss Mary.”

““Was it? She must be a real good ’un. I should like
to go to service ; I’m tired of making dogs ; we have to work
that ’ard, and it nearly all goes to the public; father drinks
worse than ever.”

98

Mrs. Saunders approved of Esther’s purchase ; it was a
beautiful bit of steak, and a few minutes after the meat was
roasting on the gridiron. The clock continued its coarse
ticking on the dresser, amid the rough plates. Jenny and
Julia hastened with their work, pressing the paper with
nervous fingers into the moulds, calling sharply to the little
group for what-sized paper they required. Esther and Mrs.
Saunders waited, full of apprehension, for the sound of a
heavy tread in the passage. At last itcame. Mrs. Saunders
turned the meat, hoping that its savoury odour would greet
_ his nostrils from afar, and that he would come to them mollified
- and amiable.

“ Hullo, Jim; yer are ‘ome a bit earlier to-day. I’m not
quite ready with yer supper.”

“JT dunno that I am. Hullo, Esther! Up for the day?
Smells damned nice, what you’re cooking for me, missus.
What is it ?”

“ Bit of steak, Jim. It seems a beautiful piece. Hope it
will eat tender.”

“ That it will. I was afeard you would have nothing more
than a rasher, and I’m that ’ungry.”

Jim Saunders, a stout, dark man about forty, who had
not shaved for some days, wore a ragged comforter around
his short, bull neck. He threw his basket into a corner,
and then himself on to the rough bench nailed against the
wall, and there, without speaking another word, he lay sniff-
ing the odour of the meat like an animal going to be fed.
Suddenly a whiff from the beer jug came into his nostrils,
and reaching out his rough hand he looked into the jug to
assure himself he was not mistaken.

““What’s this ?” he exclaimed; “a pint of porter! Yer
are doing me pretty well this evening, Ireckon. What’s up ?”

“Nothing, Jim; nothing, dear, but just as Esther has
come up we thought we’d try to make yer comfortable.
It was Esther who fetched it ; she ’as been doing pretty well,
and can\afford it.”

99

Jim looked at Esther in a sort of vague and brutal astonish-
ment, and feeling he must say something, and not knowing
well what, he said :

“Well, ’ere’s to your good health!” and he took a long
pull at the jug. ‘‘ Where did you get this ?”

“In Durham street, at the ‘ Angel.’ ”

“I thought as much; they don’t sell stuff like this at the
“Rose and Crown.’ Well, much obliged to yer. I shall
enjoy my bit of steak now; and I see a tater in the cinders.
How are you getting on, old woman—is it nearly done?
Yer know I don’t like all the goodness burnt out of it.”

“It isn’t quite done yet, Jim; a few minutes more——”

Jim sniffed in eager anticipation, and then addressed him-
self to Esther.

“Well, they seem to do yer pretty well down there. My
word, what a toff yer are! Quite a lady. There’s nothing
like service for a girl; I’ve always said so. Eh, Jenny,
wouldn’t yer like to go into service, like yer sister? Looks
better, don’t it, than making toy dogs at three-and-sixpence
the gross ?”

“T should just think it was. I wish I could As soon as
Maggie can take my place, I mean to try.”

“It was the young lady of the ’ouse that gave ’er that
nice dress,” said Julia. “My eye! she must have been a
favourite.”

At that moment Mrs. Saunders picked the steak from the
gridiron, and putting it on a nice hot plate she carried it
in her apron to Jim, saying “ Mind yer ’ands, it is burning
“ot.”

Jim fed in hungry silence, the children watching, regret-
ting that none of them ever had suppers like that. He
didn’t speak until he had put away the better part of the
steak ; then, after taking a long pull at the jug of porter,
he said :

“ T ’aven’t enjoyed a bit of food like that this many a day ;
I was that beat when I came in, and it does you good to

100
put a piece of honest meat into your stomach after a ’ard
day’s work !”

Then, prompted by a sudden thought, he complimented
Esther on her looks, and then, with increasing interest,
inquired what kind: of people she was staying with. But
Esther was in no humour for conversation, and answered his
questions briefly without entering into details. Her reserve
only increased his curiosity, which fired up at the first mention
of the racehorses.

“I don’t know much about them. I only used to see them
passing through the yard as they went to exercise on the
downs. There was always a lot of talk about them in the
servants’ hall, but I didn’t notice it. They were a great
trouble to Mrs. Barfield—I told you, mother, that she was one
of ourselves, didn’t I ?”

A look of contempt passed over Jim’s face, and he said :

““'We’ve quite enough talk ’ere about the Brethren; give
them a rest. What about the ’orses? Did they win any
races? Yer can’t ’ave missed ’earing that.”

“Yes, Silver Braid won the Stewards’ Cup.”

“* Silver Braid was one of your ’orses ?””

“Yes; Mr. Barfield won thousands and thousands, every-
one in Shoreham won something, and a ball for the servants
was given in the Gardens.”

“And you never thought of writing to me about it! I
could have ’ad thirty to one off Bill Short. One pound ten
toa bob! And yer never thought it worth while to send me
the tip. I’m blowed! Girls aren’t worth a damn. Thirty
_ to one off Bill Short—he’d have laid it. I remember seeing
the price quoted in all the papers. Thirty to one taken and
hoffered. If you had told me all yer knowed I might ’ave
gone ‘arf a quid—fifteen pun to ’alf a quid! as much as
I’d earn in three months slaving eight and ten hours a day,
paint-pot on ’and about them blooming engines. Well,
there’s no use crying over what’s done—sich a chance won’t
come again, but something else may. What are they going

101
to do with the ’orse this autumn—did yer ’ear that ?”

“T think I ’eard that he was entered for the Cambridge-
shire, but if I-remember rightly, Mr. Leopold—that’s the
butler, not his real name, but what we call him: ri

Ane yeas FT know ; after the Baron. Now what do ’e
say? Ireckon ’e knows. I should like to ’ave ’alf an hour’s
talk with your Mr. Leopold. What do’e say? For what ’e
says, unless I’m pretty well mistaken, is worth listening to.

A man wouldn’t be a-wasting ‘is time in listening to ‘im.
What do ’e say ?”

“Mr. Leopold never says much. He’s the only one that’s
the Gaffer’s confidential. They are as thick as thieves—so
they say. Mr. Leopold was the Gaffer’s valet when he was a
bachelor.”

Jim chuckled. ‘“ Yes, I think I know what kind of man
your Mr. Leopold is like. But what did ’e say about the
Cambridgeshire ?”’ )

“ He only laughed a little once, and said he didn’t think the
“orse would do much good in the autumn races—no, not races,
that isn’t the word.”

“* Handicaps ?”

“Yes, that’s it. But there’s no relying on what Mr.
Leopold says—he never says what he really means. But I
’eard William, that’s the footman ae

“‘ What are you stopping for? What did yer ear ’im say ?”

“‘ That he intends to have something on next spring.”

“ Did he say any race? Did he say the City and Sub ?”

** Yes, that was the race he mentioned.”

“T thought that would be about the length and the
breadth of it,” Jim said, as he took up his knife and fork.
There was only a small portion of the beefsteak left, and
this he ate gluttonously, and, finishing what remained of
the porter, he leaned back, and in the happiness of repletion
crammed tobacco into a dirty clay, with a dirtier finger-

nail, and said :
“I’d be uncommon glad to ’ear how he is getting on.

«

102
When are you going back? Up for the day only ?”

Esther did not answer, and Jim looked inquiringly as he
reached across the table for the matches. The decisive
moment had arrived, and Mrs. Saunders said :

“ Esther ain’t a-going back ; leastways

“Not going back! You don’t mean that shé ain’t con-

”

?

tented in her situation—that she ’as ;
“Esther ain’t going back no more,’ Mrs. Saunders

>

answered, incautiously. ‘‘ Look ee ’ere, Ji

“ Out with it, old woman—no ’umbug! What is it all
about? Ain’t going back to ’er sitooation, and where she
’as been treated like that—just look at the duds she ’as got
on.”

The evening was darkening rapidly, and the firelight
flickered over the back of the toy dogs piled up on the dresser.
Jim had lit his pipe, and the acrid and warm odour of quickly
burning tobacco overpowered the smell of grease and the
burnt skin of the baked potato, a fragment of which remained
on the plate; only the sickly flavour of drying paste was
. distinguishable in the reek of the short black clay which the
man held firmly between his teeth. Esther sat by the fire,
her hands crossed over her knees, no signs of emotion on her
sullen, plump face. Mrs. Saunders stood on the other side
of Esther, between her and the younger children, now
quarrelling among themselves, and her face was full of fear as
she watched her husband anxiously.

“* Now then, old woman, blurt it out!” he said. ‘“‘ What is
it? Can it be the girl ’as lost her sitooation—got the sack ?
Yes, I see that’s about the cut of it. Her beastly temper !
So they couldn’t put up with it in the country any more than
I could mesel’. Well, it’s ’er own look out! If she can
afford to chuck up a place like that, so much the better for ’er.
Pity, though; she might ’ave put me up to many a good
thing.”

“Tt ain’t that, Jim. The girl is in trouble.”

“Wot do yer say? Esther in trouble? Well, that’s the

103

best bit I’ve heard this long while. I always told ye that
the religious ones were just the same as the others—a bit
more hypocritical, that’s all. So she that wouldn’t ’ave
nothing to do with such as was Mrs. Dunbar ’as got ’erself
into trouble! Well, I never! But tis just what I always
said. The goody-goody sort are the worst. So she ’as
got ’erself into trouble! Well, she'll ’ave to get ’erself out
of it2’

“Now, Jim, dear, yer mustn’t be ’ard on ’er; she could
tell a very different story if she wished it, but yer know what
she is. There she sits like a block of marble, and won’t as
much as say a word in ’er own defence.”

“ But I don’t want ’er to speak. I don’t care, it’s nothing

2?

to me ; I only laughed because

“ Jim, dear, it is something to all of us. What we thought
was that you might let her stop ’ere till her time was come
to go to the ’orspital.”’

“ Ah, that’s it, is it? That was the meaning of the alf-
pound of steak and the pint of porter, was it? I thought
there was something hup. So she wants to stop ’ere, do she?
As if there wasn’t enough already! Well, I be blowed if she
do! A nice thing, too; a girl can’t go away to service with-
out coming back to her respectable ‘ome in trouble—in
trouble, she calls it. Now, I won’t ’ave it; there’s enough
’ere as it is, and another coming, worse luck. We wants no
bastards ’ere. Anda nice example, too, for the other children!
No, I wont ’ave it!”

Jenny and Julia looked curiously at Esther, who sat quite
still, her face showing no sign of emotion. Mrs. Saunders
turned towards her, a pitying look on her face, saying clearly,
“You see, my poor girl, how matters stand; I can do
nothing.”

The girl, although she did not raise her eyes, understood
what was passing in her mother’s mind, for there was a
grave deliberativeness in the manner in which she rose from
the chair,

104

But just as the daughter had guessed what was passing
in the mother’s mind, so did the mother guess what was
passing in the daughter’s. Mrs. Saunders threw herself
before Esther, saying, “‘ Oh, no, Esther, wait a moment; ‘e
won’t be so ’ard on ’ee.” Then turning to her husband,
“Yer don’t understand, Jim. It is only for a littlétime.”

“No, I tell yer. No, I won’t ’ave it! There be too many
"ere as it is.”

“ Only a little while, Jim.”

“No. And those who ain’t wanted ’ad better go at once—
that’s my advice to them. The place is as full of us that we
can ’ardly turn round as it is. No, I won’t ’ear of it !”

“ But, Jim, Esther is quite willing to pay her way; she’s
saved a good little sum of money, and could afford to pay us
ten shillings a week for board and the parlour.”

A perplexed look came on Jim’s face.

““Why didn’t yer tell me that afore? Of course I don’t
wish to be ’ard on the girl, as yer ’ave just heard me say.
Ten shillings a week for her board and the parlour—that
- seems fair enough; and if it’s any convenience to ’er to
stop ere, I’m sure we'll be glad to ’ave ’er. I'll say right
glad, too. We was always good friends, Esther, wasn’t we,
though ye wasn’t one of my own?” So saying, Jim held out
his hand.

Esther tried to pass by her mother. “I don’t want to
stop where I’m not wanted ; I wants no one’s charity. Let
me go, mother.”

“No, no, Esther. *Aven’t yer ’eard what ’e says? Ye
are my child if you ain’t ’is, and it would break my ’eart,
that it would, to see you go away among strangers. Yer
place is among yer own people, who'll look after you.”

“Now, then, Esther, why should there be ill feeling?
I didn’t mean any ’arm. There’s a lot of us ere, and I’ve
to think of the interests of my own. But for all that I should
be main sorry to see yer take yer money among strangers,
where you wouldn’t get no value for it. You’d better stop.

105

I’m sorry for what I said. Ain’t that enough for yer ?”

“Jim, Jim, dear, don’t say no more; leave ’er to me.
Esther, for my*sake stop with us. You are in trouble, and
it is right for you to stop with me. Jim ’as said no more than
the truth. With all the best will in the world we couldn’t
afford to keep yer for nothing, but since yer can pay yer way,
it is yer duty to stop. Think, Esther, dear, think. Go and
shake ’ands with ’im, and I'll go and make yer up a bed on the
sofa.”

“ There’s no bloody need for ’er to shake my ’and if she
don’t like,” Jim replied, and he pulled doggedly at his pipe.

Esther tried, but her fierce and heavy temper held her
back. She couldn’t go to her father for reconciliation, and
the matter might have ended quite differently, but suddenly,
without another word, Jim put on his hat and went out to
join “ his chaps ” who were waiting for him about the public-
house, close to the cab rank in the Vauxhall Bridge Road.
The door was hardly closed behind him when the young
children laughed and ran about joyously, and Jenny and Julia
went over to Esther and begged her to stop.

“ Of course she'll stop,” said Mrs. Saunders. ‘‘ And now,
Esther, come along and help me to make you up a bed in the.
parlour.”

CHAPTER XIV

Mrs. Saunpers stood looking at her, and Esther turned
suddenly on the sofa. and said :

“* What time is it, mother ?”

“Tt’s gone six; but don’t you get up. You're your own
mistress whilst you’re here ; you pays for what you ’as.”

“I can’t afford them lazy habits. There’s plenty of work
here, and I must help you with some of it.”

“Plenty of work here, that’s right enough. But why
_ should you bother, and you nearly seven months gone?

106
I daresay you feels that ’eavy that you never care to get
out of your chair. But they says that them who works up to the
last ’as the easiest time inthe end. Not that I’ve found it so.”

The conversation paused. Esther threw her legs over the
side of the sofa, and, still wrapped in the blanket, sat looking
at her mother. ‘

“You can’t be over-comfortable on that bit of sofa,” said
Mrs. Saunders.

“ Lor, I can manage right enough, if that was all.”

“You’re cast down, Esther; you mustn’t give way.
Things sometimes turn out better than you’d expect for.”

“You never found they did, mother.”

“ Perhaps I didn’t, but that says nothing for others. We
must bear up as best we can.”

One word led to another, and very soon Esther was telling
her mother the whole tale of her misfortune—all about
William, the sweepstakes, the ball at the Shoreham Gardens,
the walks about the farm and hillside.

“* Service is no place for a girl who wants to live as we used
- to live when father was alive—no service that I’ve seen. I
see that plain enough. Mistress was one of the Brethren like
ourselves, and she had to put up with betting and drinking
and dancing, and never a thought of the Lord. There was no
standing out against it. They call you Creeping Jesus if you
say your prayers, and you can’t say them with a girl laughing
or singing behind your back, so you think you'll say them to
yourself in bed, but sleep comes sooner than you expect, and
so you slips out of the habit. Then the drinking. We was
brought up teetotal, but they’re always pressing it upon you,
and to please him I said I would drink the ’orse’s ’ealth.
That’s how it began. You don’t know what it is, mother ;
you only knew God-fearing men until you married him. We
aren’t all good like you, mother. But I thought no harm,
indeed I didn’t.”

“ A girl can’t know what a man is thinking of, and we takes
the worst\for the best.”

107

“ T don’t say that I was altogether blameless, but——”’

“You didn’t know he was that bad.”

Esther hesitated.

“T knew he was like other men. But he told me—he
promised me he’d marry me.”

Mrs. Saunders did not answer, and Esther said, “You
don’t believe I’m speaking the truth.”

“Yes, I do, dearie. I was only thinking. You're my
daughter ; no mother had a better daughter. There never
was a better girl in this world.”

“ T was telling you, mother

“ But I don’t want no telling that my Esther ain’t a bad
girl.”

Mrs. Saunders sat nodding her head, a sweet, uncritical
mother ; and Esther understood how unselfishly her mother

29

loved her, and how simply she thought of how she might
help her in her trouble. Neither spoke, and Esther con-
tinued dressing.

“You ’aven’t told me what you think of your room. It
looks pretty, don’t you think? I keeps it as nice as I can.
Jenny hung up them pictures. They livens it up a bit,”
she said, pointing to the coloured supplements, from the
illustrated papers, on the wall. ‘‘ The china shepherd and
shepherdess, you know ; they was at Barnstaple.”

When Esther was dressed, she and Mrs. Saunders knelt
down and said a prayer together. Then Esther said she
would make up her room, and when that was done she in-
sisted on helping her mother with the housework.

In the afternoon she sat with her sisters, helping them
with their dogs, folding the paper into the mouids, pasting it
down, or cutting the skins into the requisite sizes. About
five, when the children had had their tea, she and her
mother went for a short walk. Very often they strolled
through Victoria Station, amused by the bustle of the traffic,
or maybe they wandered down the Buckingham Palace Road,
attracted by the shops. And there was a sad pleasure in

-

108

these walks. The elder woman had borne years of exceeding
trouble, and felt her strength failing under her burdens,
which instead of lightening were increasing; the younger
woman was full of nervous apprehension for the future and
grief for the past. But they loved each other deeply. Esther
threw herself in the way to protect her mother, whether at a
dangerous crossing or from the heedlessness of the crowd at a
corner, and often a passer-by turned his head and looked after
them, attracted by the solicitude which the younger woman
showed for the elder. And in those walks very little was said.
The two walked in silence, slipping now and then into occa-
sional speech, and here and there a casual allusion or a broken
sentence would indicate what was passing in their minds.

One day some flannel and shirts in a window caught Mrs.
Saunders’ eye, and she said :

“It is time, Esther, you thought about your baby clothes.
You must be prepared ; you never knows if you'll go your full
time.”

The words came upon Esther with something of a shock,
’ helping her to realise the imminence of her trouble.

“You must have something by you, dear; you never
knows how it is going to turn out; even I who have been
through it do feel that nervous. I looks round the kitchen
when I’m taken with the pains, and I says, ‘ I may never see
this room again.’ ”

The words were said in an undertone to Esther, and the
shopwoman turned to get down the ready-made things which
Mrs. Saunders had asked to see.

“Here,” said the shopwoman, “is the gown, longcloth,
one-and-sixpence ; here is the flannel, one-and-sixpence ;
and here is the little shirt, sixpence.”

“You must have these to go on with, dear, and if the baby
lives you'll want another set.”

“ Oh, mother, of course he’ll live ; why shouldn’t he ?”

Even the shopwoman smiled, and Mrs. Saunders, addressing
the shopwoman, said :

109

“Them that knows nothing about it is allus full of ’ope.”

The shopwoman raised her eyes, sighed, and inquired
sympathetically if this was the young lady’s first confinement.

Mrs. Saunders nodded and sighed, and then the shopwoman
asked Mrs. Saunders if she required any baby clothes. Mrs.
Saunders said she had all she required. The parcel was made
up, and they were preparing to leave, when Esther said :

“I may as well buy the stuff and make another set—it
will give me something to do in the afternoons. I think I
should like to make them.” .

“We have some first-rate longcloth at sixpence-half-
penny a yard.”

“ You might take three yards, Esther ; if anything should
happen to the baby it will always come in useful. And you
had better take three yards of flannel. How much is yer
flannel ?”

“We have some excellent flannel,” said the woman, lifting
down a long, heavy package in dull yellow paper; “ this is
tenpence a yard. You'll want a finer longcloth for the little
shirts.”

And every afternoon Esther sat in the parlour by the
window, seeing, when she raised her eyes from the sewing,
the low brick street full of children, and hearing the working
women calling from the open doors or windows ; and as she
worked at the baby clothes, never perhaps to be worn, her
heart sank at the long prospect that awaited her, the end of
which she could not see, for it seemed to reach to the very end
of her life. In these hours she realised in some measure the
duties that life held in store, and it seemed to her that they
exceeded her strength. Never would she be able to bring
him up—he would have no one to look to but her. She never
imagined other than that her child would be aboy. The task
was clearly more than she could perform, and in despair she
thought it would be better for it to die. What would happen
if she remained out of a situation? Her father would not
have her at home, that she knew well enough. What should

110

she do, and the life of ‘another depending on her? She
would never see William again—that was certain. He had
married a lady, and, were they to meet, he wouldn’t look at
her. Her temper grew hot, and the memory of the injustice
of which she had been a victim pressed upon her. But when
vain anger passed away she thought of her baby, anticipating
the joy she would experience when he held out tiny hands to
her, and that, too, which she would feel when he laid an
innocent cheek to hers; and, her dream persisting, she saw
him learning a trade, going to work in the morning and
coming back to her in the evening, proud in the accomplish-
ment of something done, of good money honestly earned.

She thought a great deal, too, of her poor mother, who .
was looking strangely weak and poorly, and whose condition
was rendered worse by her nervous fears that she would not
get through this confinement. For the doctor had told
Mrs. Saunders that the next time it might go hard with her ;
and in this house, her husband growing more reckless and
drunken, it was altogether a bad lookout, and she might die
for want of a little nourishment or alittle care. Unfortunately
they would both be down at the same time, and it was almost
impossible that Esther should be well in time to look after her
mother. That brute! It was wrong to think of her father so,
but he seemed to be without mercy for any of them. He had
come in yesterday half boozed, having kept back part of his
money—he had come in tramping and hiccuping.

“ Now, then, old girl, cough up! I must have a few half-
pence ; my chaps is waiting for me, and I can’t be looking
. down their mouths with nothing in my pockets.”

“T only have a few halfpence to get the children a bit of
dinner ; if I give them to you they'll have nothing to eat.”

“ Oh, the children can eat anything ; I want beer. If yer
’aven’t money, make it.”

Mrs. Saunders said that if he had any spare clothes she
would take them round the corner. He only answered :

“Well, if I ’aven’t a spare waistcoat left just take some

111
of yer own things. I tell yer I want beer, and I mean to have
some.”

Then, with his fist raised, he came at his poor wife, ordering
her to take one of the sheets from the bed and ‘‘ make money,’
and would have struck her if Esther had not come between
them and, with her hand in her pocket, said, “ Be quiet,
father ; I'll give you the money you want.”

She had done the same before, and, if needs be, she would
do so again. She could not see her mother struck, perhaps
killed by that brute ; her first duty was to save her mother,
but these constant demands on her little savings frightened
her. She would want every penny of her savings; the ten
shillings he had already had from her might be the very sum
required to put her on her feet again, and send her in search of
a situation where she would be able to earn money for the
boy. But if this extortion continued she didn’t know what
she would do, and that night she prayed that God might not
delay the birth of her child.

CHAPTER XV

“JT wisu, mother, you was going to the hospital with me;
it would save a lot of expense and you'd be better cared for.”

“ T’d like to be with you, dearie, but I can’t leave my ‘ome,
all these young children about and no one to see to them. I
must stop where I am. But I’ve been meaning to tell you—
it is time that you was thinking about yer letter.”

‘“ What letter, mother ?”

“They don’t take you without a letter from one of the
subscribers. If I was you, now that the weather is fine and
you have strength for the walk, I’d go up to Queen Charlotte’s.
It is up the Edgware Road way, I think. What do you think
about to-morrow ?”

“ To-morrow’s Sunday.”

“‘ That makes no matter, them horspitals is open.”

112

“ T’'ll go to-morrow when we have washed up.”

On Friday Esther had had to give her father more money
for drink. She gave him two shillings, and that made a
sovereign that he had had from her. On Saturday night he
had been brought home helplessly drunk long after midnight,
and next morning one of the girls had to fetch him a drop of
something to pull him together. He had lain in bed until
dinner-time, swearing he would brain anyone who made the
least noise. Even the Sunday dinner, a nice beefsteak
pudding, hardly tempted him, and he left the table saying that
if he could find Tom Carter they would take a penny boat and
go for a blow on the river. The whole family waited for his
departure. But he lingered, talked inconsequently, and
several times Mrs. Saunders and the children gave up hope.
Esther sat without a word. He called her a sulky brute, and,
snatching up his hat, left the house. The moment he was
gone the children began to chatter like birds. Esther put on
her hat and jacket.

“I’m going, mother.”

“Well, take care of yourself. Good luck to you.”

Esther smiled sadly. But the beautiful weather melted
on her lips, her lungs swelled with the warm air, and she
noticed the sparrow that flew across the cab rank, and saw the
black dot pass down a mews and disappear under the eaves.
It was a warm day in the middle of April ; a mist of green had
begun in the branches of the elms of the Green Park ; and in
Park Lane, in all the balconies and gardens, wherever nature
could find roothold, a spray of green met the eye. There was
music, too, in the air, the sound of fifes and drums, and all
along the roadway as far as she could see the rapid movement
of assembling crowds. A procession with banners was turning
the corner of the Edgware Road, and the policeman had
stopped the traffic to allow it to pass. The principal banner
blew out blue and gold in the wind, and the men that bore the
poles walked with strained backs under the weight; the
music changed, opinions about the objects of the demonstra-

113

tion were exchanged, and it was some time before Esther
could gain the policeman’s attention. At last the conductor
rang his bell, the omnibus started, and gathering courage she
asked the way. It seemed to her that everyone was noticing
her, and fearing to be overheard she spoke so low that the
policeman understood her to say Charlotte Street. At that
moment an omnibus drew up close beside them.

“ Charlotte Street, Charlotte Street,” said the policeman,
“ there’s Charlotte Street, Bloomsbury.”’ Before Esther could
answer he had turned to the conductor. ‘‘ You don’t know
any Charlotte Street about here, do you ?”

“No, I don’t. But can’t yer see that it ain’t no Charlotte
Street she wants, but Queen Charlotte’s Hospital? And ye’d
better lose no time in directing her.”

A roar of coarse laughter greeted this pleasantry, and
burning with shame she hurried down the Edgware Road.
But she hadn’t gone far before she had to ask again, and
she scanned the passers-by seeking some respectable woman,
or in default an innocent child.

She came at last to an ugly desert place. There was
the hospital, square, forbidding, opposite—a tall, lean build-
ing with long grey columns. Esther rang, and the great
door, some fifteen feet high, was opened by a small boy.

“ T want to see the secretary.”

“ Will you come this way ?”

She was shown into a waiting-room, and while waiting she
looked at the religious prints on the walls. A lad of fifteen or
sixteen came in. He said:

“You want to see the secretary ?”

ieee .

“‘ But I’m afraid you can’t see him ; he’s out.”

“‘T have come a long way; is there no one else I can
see?”

“ Yes, you can see me—I’m his clerk. Have you come to be
confined ?”

Esther answered that she had.

114

“But,” said the boy, “‘ you are not in labour; we never
take anyone in before.”

“‘T do not expect to be confined for another month. I
came to make arrangements.”

“ You've got a letter ?”

NING?: ‘:

“‘ Then you must get a letter from one of the subscribers.”

“ But I don’t know any.”

“* You can have a book of their names and addresses.”

“ But I know no one.”

“You needn’t know them. You can go and call. Take
those that live nearest—that’s the way it is done.”

“ Will you give me the book ?”

“.T’ll go and get one.”

The boy returned a moment after with a small book, for
which he demanded a shilling. Since she had come to
London her hand had never been out of her pocket. She had
her money with her, for she didn’t dare leave it at home on
account of her father. The clerk looked out the addresses for
. her and she tried to remember them—two were in Cumberland
Place, another was in Bryanstone Square. In Cumberland
Place she was received by an elderly lady who said she
did not wish to judge anyone, but it was her invariable
practice to give letters only to married women. There was a
delicate smell of perfume in the room ; the lady stirred the
fire and lay back in her armchair. Once or twice Esther tried
to withdraw, but the lady, although unswervingly faithful to
her principles, seemed not indifferent to Esther’s story, and
asked her many questions.

“TI don’t see what interest all that can be to you, as you
ain’t going to give me a letter,” Esther answered.

The next house she called at the lady was not at home,
but she was expected back presently, and the maidservant
asked her to take a seat in the hall. But when Esther
refused information about her troubles she was called a stuck-
up thing who deserved all she got, and was told there was no

115
use her waiting. At the next place she was received by a
footman who insisted on her communicating her business to
him. Then he said he would see if his master was in. He
wasn’t in; he must have just gone out. The best time to
find him was before half past ten in the morning.

“ He'll be sure to do all he can for you—he always do for the
good-looking ones. How did it all happen ?”

“ What business is that of yours? I don’t ask your busi-
ness.”

“ Well, you needn’t turn so rusty.”

At that moment the master entered. He asked Esther
to come into his study. He was a tall, youngish-looking man
of three- or four-and-thirty, with bright eyes and hair, and
there was in his voice and manner a kindness that impressed
Esther. She wished, however, that she had seen his mother
instead of him, for she was more than ever ashamed of her
condition. He seemed genuinely sorry for her, and regretted
that he had given all his tickets away. Then a thought
struck him, and he wrote a letter to one of his friends, a
banker in Lincoln’s Inn Felds. This gentleman, he said, was a
large subscriber to the hospital, and would certainly give her
the letter she required.

The visit brought a little comfort, and thinking of his kind
eyes she walked slowly, inquiring out her way until she got
back to the Marble Arch, and stood looking down the long
Bayswater Road where the tall houses towered above the
sunset ; and some sensation of the poetry of the hour must
have stolen into her heart, for she turned into the Park,
choosing to walk among the crowds scattered like strips of
black tape. Here and there by the railings the tape had been
wound up in a black ball, and the peg was some democratic
orator, promising poor human nature unconditional deliver-
ance from evil. Farther on were heard sounds from a har-
monium, and hymns were being sung, and in each doubting
face there was something of the perplexing, haunting look
which the city wore.

116

A chill wind was blowing. Winter had returned with the
night, but the instinct of spring continued in the branches.
The deep, sweet scent of the hyacinth floated along the
railings, and the lovers that sat with their arms about each
other on every seat were of Esther’s own class. She would
have liked to have called them round her and told them her
miserable story, so that they might profit by her experience.

CHAPTER XVI

Onty three weeks remained, and she had hoped to spend them
with her mother, who was timorous and desponding, and stood
in need of consolation. But this was not to be; her father’s
drunkenness continued, and daily he became more extortion-
ate in his demands for money. Esther had not six pounds left,
and she felt that she must leave. It had come to this, that she
doubted if she were to stay on that the clothes on her back
might not be taken from her. Mrs. Saunders was of the same
. opinion, and she urged Esther to go. But scruples restrained
her.

“I can’t bring myself to leave you, mother; something
tells me I should stay with you. It is dreadful to be parted
from you. I wish you was coming to the hospital; you’d be
far safer there than at home.”

“IT know that, dearie ; but where’s the good in talking
about it? It only makes it harder to bear. You know I
can’t leave. It is terrible hard, as you says.’’ Mrs. Saunders
held her apron to her eyes and cried. “ You have always been
a good girl, never a better—my one consolation since your
poor father died.”

“Don’t cry, mother,” said Esther ; “‘ the Lord will watch
over us, and we shall both pray for each other. In about a
month, dear, we shall be both quite well, and you'll bless my
baby, and I shall think of the time when I shall put him into
your arms.”

117

“T hope so, Esther ; I hope so, but I am full of fears. I’m
sore afraid that we shall never see one another again—
leastways on this-earth.”

“ Oh, mother, dear, yer mustn’t talk like that ; you'll break
my heart, that you will.”

The cab that took Esther to her lodging cost half a crown,
and this waste of money frightened her thrifty nature,
inherited through centuries of working folk. The waste,
however, had ceased at last, and it was none too soon, she
thought, as she sat in the room she had taken near the hospital,
in a little eight-roomed house, kept by an old woman whose
son was a bricklayer.

It was at the end of the week, one afternoon, as Esther
was sitting alone, there came within her a great and sudden
shock—life seemed to be slipping from her, and she sat for
some minutes quite unable to move, and when the pain
ceased she went downstairs to consult Mrs. Jones.

“‘ Hadn’t I better go to the hospital now, Mrs. Jones ?”

“ Not just yet, my dear : them is but the first labour pains ;
plenty of time to think of the hospital ; we shall see how you
are in a couple of hours.”

“Will it last so long as that ?”

“You'll be lucky if you get it over before midnight. I have
been down for longer than that.”

“Do you mind my stopping in the kitchen with you? I feel
frightened when I’m alone.”

“No, I'll be glad of your company. I'll get you some tea at
once.”

“T couldn’t touch anything. Oh, this is dreadful !’’ she
exclaimed, as she walked to and fro holding her sides, balanc-
ing herself dolefully. Often Mrs. Jones stopped in her work
about the range and said, looking at her, “‘ I know what it is, I
have been through it many a time; we all must; it is our
earthly lot.’” At seven o’clock Esther was clinging to the table,
and with pain so vivid on her face that Mrs. Jones laid aside the
sausages she was cooking and approached the suffering girl.

118

“What ! is it so bad.as all that ?”

“Oh,” she said, “I think I’m dying, I cannot stand up ;
give me a chair, give me a chair!” and she sank upon it,
leaning across the table, her face and neck bathed in a cold
sweat.

“ John will have to get his supper himself ; I’ leave these
sausages on the hob, and run upstairs and put on my bonnet.
The things you intend to bring with you, the baby clothes, are
made up in a bundle, aren’t they ?”

“Yes, yes.”

Little Mrs. Jones came running down ; she threw a shawl
over Esther, and it was astonishing what support she lent to
the suffering girl, calling on her the whole time to lean on her
and not be afraid. “‘ Now then, dear, you must keep your
heart up, we have only a few yards farther to go.”

“You are so good, you are so kind,” Esther said, and she
leaned against the wall, and Mrs. Jones rang the bell.

“ Keep up your spirits ; to-morrow it will be all over. I will
come round and see how you are.”

The door opened. The porter rang the bell, and a sister
came running down.

“ Come, come, take my arm,” she said, “‘ and breathe hard
as you are ascending the stairs. Come along, you mustn’t
loiter.”

On the second landing a door was thrown open, and she
found herself in a room full of people, eight or nine young men
and women.

“What ! in there ? and all those people ?”’ said Esther.

“‘ Of course ; those are the midwives and the students.”

The screams she had heard in the passage came from a bed
on the left-hand side. A woman lay there huddled up, and
Esther was taken behind a screen by the sister who brought
her upstairs, undressed, and clothed in a chemise a great deal
too big for her, she heard the sister say so at the time ; and as
she walked across the room to her bed she noticed the steel
instruments on the round table and the basins on the floor.

119

The students and the nurses were behind her. She knew
they were eating sweets, for she heard a young man ask the
young women if they would have any more fondants. A
moment after her pains began again, and she saw the young
man whom she had seen handing the sweets approaching her
bedside.

“ Oh, no, not him, not him! ” she cried to the nurse “ Not
him, not him! he is too young! Don’t let him come near
me !”

They laughed loudly, and she buried her head in the pillow,
overcome with pain and shame ; and when she felt him by her
she tried to rise from the bed.

“ Let me go! take me away! Oh, you are all beasts !”

“ Come come, no nonsense !”’ said the nurse ; “ you can’t
have what you like ; they are here to learn ;” and when he had
tried the pains she heard the midwife say that it wasn’t
necessary to send for the doctor. Another said that it would
be all over in about three hours’ time. “ An easy confine-
ment, I should say. The other will be more interesting.”
And then they talked of the plays they had seen, and those
they wished to see. She was soon listening to a discussion
regarding the merits of a shilling novel which everyone was
reading, and then Esther heard a stampede of nurses, mid-
wives, and students in the direction of the window. A
German band had come into the street.

“Ts that the way to leave your patient, sister ?” said the
student who sat by Esther’s bed, and Esther looked into his
clear blue, girl-like eyes, wondered, and turned away for
shame.

The sister stopped her imitation of a popular comedian, and
said, ‘‘ Oh, she’s all right ; if they were all like her there’d be
very little use our coming here.”

“Unfortunately, that’s just what they are,” said another
student, a stout fellow with a pointed red beard, the ends of
which caught the light. Her eyes often went to those stubble
ends, and she hated him for his loud voice and jocularity.

1

>

120

One of the midwives, a woman Vith a long nose and small grey
eyes, seemed to mock her, anj she hoped that this woman
would not come near her, for ‘here was something sinister in
her face, and Esther was gliq when her favourite, a little
blonde woman with wavy flaxen hair, came by and asked her
if she felt better. She looked y jittJe like the young student
who still sat by her bedside, anq Esther wondered if they
were brother and sister, andthen she thought that they were
sweethearts.

Soon after a bell rang, and the students went down to
supper, the nurse in charg, promising to warn them if any
change should take place. The last pains had so thoroughly
exhausted her that she hay fatlen into a doze. But she could
hear the chatter of the purses so clearly that she did not
believe herself asleep. 4nd in this film of sleep reality was
distorted, and the unsu¢cessfyl operation which the nurses
were discussing Esther Understood to be a conspiracy against
her life. She awoke, listened, and gradually sense of the
truth returned to her. She was in the hospital, and the nurses
were talking of somone who had died last week. The
woman in the other beq seemed to suffer dreadfully. Would
she live through it? Would she herself live to see the morn-
ing? How long th¢ time, how fearful the place! If the
nurses would only stop talking. It did not matter. The
pains would soon begin again. It was awful to lie listening,
waiting.

The windows Wére open, and the mocking gaiety of the

street was borne’ in on the night wind. Then there came

a trampling of tect and sound of voices in the passage—
the students ang purses were coming up from supper; and

at the same Moment the pains began to creep up from her
knees. One of.

the young men said that her time had not

come. The Wotan, with the sinister look that Esther dreaded

held a contrary ‘opinion. The point was argued, and, interested

in the question! the crowd came from the window and collected

round the dis putants. The young man expounded much
/

121
medical and anatomical knowledge ; the nurses listened with
the usual deference of women.

Suddenly, the discussion was interrupted by a scream from
Esther ; it seemed to her that she was being torn asunder,
that life was going from her. The nurse ran to her side, a look
of triumph came upon her face, and she said, “‘ Now, we shall
see who’s right,” and forthwith went for the doctor. He came
running up the stairs; silence and scientific collectedness
gathered round Esther, and after a brief examination he said,
in a low whisper :

“I’m afraid this will not be as easy a case as one might
have imagined. I shall administer chloroform.”

He placed a small wire case over her mouth and nose. The
sickly odour which she breathed from the cotton wool filled her
brain with nausea ; it seemed to choke her ; life faded a little,
and at every inhalation she expected to lose sight of the circle
of faces.

And then the darkness began to lighten ; night passed into
dawn ; she could hear voices, and when her eyes opened the
doctors and the nurses were still standing round her, but
there was no longer any expression of eager interest on their
faces. She wondered at this change, and then out of the
silence there came a tiny cry.

“* What’s that ?” Esther asked.

“ That’s your baby.”

“My baby! Let me see it: is it a boy ora girl ?”

“It is a boy ; and he will be given to you when we get you
out of the labour ward.”

“‘ [knew it would be a boy.” Ascream carried her thoughts
back to the woman whom she saw in labour when she entered
the room. “ Hasn’t she been confined yet ?”

“‘ No, and I don’t think she will be till midday ; she’s very
bad.”

The door was thrown open, and Esther was wheeled into the
passage. ‘ Where is my boy ?” she said, “ give him to me.”

A , o

122

The nurse entered, and answered, “ Here.”” A pulp of red
flesh rolled up in flannel was laid alongside of her. Its eyes
were open ; it looked at her, and her flesh filled with a sense of
happiness so deep and so intense that she was like one en-
chanted. And when she took the child in her arms she
thought she must die of happiness. She did not hear the
nurse speak, nor did she understand her when she took the
babe from her arms and laid it alongside on the pillow, saying,
“You must let the little thing sleep ; you must try to sleep
yourself.”’

Her personal self seemed entirely withdrawn ; she existed
like an atmosphere about the babe and lay absorbed in this
life of her life, this flesh of her flesh, unconscious of herself as a
sponge in warm sea-water. She touched this pulp of life, and
was thrilled, and once more her senses swooned with love ; it
was still there. She remembered that the nurse had said it was
aboy. She must see her boy, and her hands, working as in a
dream, unwound him, and she gazed until he awoke and cried.
She tried to hush him and to enfold him, but her strength
- failed ; she could not help him, and fear came lest he should
die ; she strove to reach her hands to him, but all strength had
gone from her, and his cries sounded hollow in her weak brain.
Then the nurse came and said :

“* See what you have done, the poor child is all uncovered ;
no wonder he is crying. I will wrap him up, and you must not
interfere with him again.” But as soon as the nurse turned
away Esther had her child back in her arms. She could not
sleep. She could not sleep for thinking of him, and the night
passed in long adoration.

CHAPTER XVII

Aut her joints were loosened ; the long hospital days passed in
gentle weariness ; lady visitors came and asked questions, and
Esther said her father and mother lived in the Vauxhall

123

Bridge Road, and that she had saved four pounds. But the
woman in the bed next to Esther (there were two beds in this
ward) was wiser, and by declaring herself to be without home,
or money, or friends, she secured all the sympathy and many
promises of help. They received visits from a clergyman,
who spoke to Esther of God’s goodness and wisdom, but his
exhortations seemed a little remote. If it had been her own
people who came and knelt about her bed, lifting their voices
in the plain prayers she was accustomed to, it would have been
different ; but this well-to-do clergyman, with his sophisticated
speech, seemed foreign to her, and failed to draw her thoughts
from the sleeping child.

The ninth day passed ; Esther recovered but slowly, and it
was decided she should not leave the hospital before the end of
the third week. But as soon as she crossed the threshold of
the hospital there would be no more peace, and, listening to
the never-ending rumble of the street, she thought of her dear
mother. At last her sister came to see her.

“« Jenny, what has happened ; is mother very bad ?”

“ Mother is dead, that’s what I’ve come to tell you; I’d

29

have come before, but:
“Mother dead! Oh no, Jenny! Oh, Jenny, not my
poor mother !”
“Yes, Esther. I knew it would cut you up dreadful; we
was all very sorry, but she’s dead. She’s dead a long time

now, I was just a-going to tell you——’

“ Jenny, what do you mean? Dead a long time ?”

“‘ Well, she was buried more than a week ago. We were so
sorry you couldn’t be at the funeral. We was all there, and
had crape on our dresses and father had crape on his ’at. We
all cried, especially in church and about the grave, and when
the sexton threw in the soil it sounded that hollow it made me
sob. Julia, she lost her ’ead and asked to be buried with
mother, and I had to lead her away ; and then we went ’ome
to dinner.”

“Oh, Jenny, our poor mother gone from us for ever!

‘
*

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How did she die? Tell.me, was it a peaceful death? Did
she suffer ?”

‘“‘ There ain’t much to tell. Mother was taken bad almost
the minute after you was with us the last time. Mother was
that bad all the day long and all night too, we could ’ardly
stop in the ’ouse ; it just gave you the creeps to listen to her
crying and moaning.”

“And then ?”

‘“‘ Why, then the baby was born. It was dead, and mother
died of weakness ; prostration the doctor called it.”

Esther hid her face in the pillow, and an anxious look of self
began to appear on Jenny’s vulgar London street face.

“ Look ’ere, Esther, you can cry when I’ve gone ; I’ve a lot
to say to yer and time is short.”

“Oh, Jenny, don’t speak like that! Father, was he kind to
mother ?”

“‘T dunno that he thought much about it ; he spent ’alf ’is
time in the public, ’e did. He said he couldn’t abide the ’ouse
with a woman a-screaming like that. One of the neighbours
. came in to look after mother, and at last she had the doctor.
Esther looked at her sister through streaming tears, and the
woman in the other bed spoke of the folly of poor women
being confined “ in their own ’omes—in a ’ome where there is
a drunken ’usband, and most ’omes is like that nowadays.”

At that moment Esther’s baby awoke, crying for the breast,
and in a moment Esther’s face took on an expression of holy
solicitude as she watched the little lips catching at the nipple,
and the wee hand pressing the white curve, like a lamb with a
ewe, for all nature is akin ; and Jenny watched the gluttonous
lips, interested in the spectacle, yet absorbed in what she had
come to say to her sister.

“ Your baby do look ’ealthy.”

“Yes, and he is too, not an ache or a pain. He’s as beauti-
ful a boy as ever lived. But think of poor mother, J enny,
think of poor mother.”

“TI do think of her, Esther. But I can’t help seeing your

125
baby. He’s like you, Esther. I can see a look of you in ’is
eyes. But I don’t know that I should care to ’ave a baby
meself—the expense comes very ’eavy on a girl.”

“Please God, my baby shall never want for anything
as long as I can work for him. But, Jenny, my trouble will be
a lesson to you. I hope you will always be a good girl, and
never allow yourself to be led away ; you promise me ?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“A ’ome like ours, a drunken father, and now that poor
mother is gone it will be worse than ever. Jenny, you are
the eldest and must do your best to look after the younger
ones, and as much as possible to keep father from the public-
house. I shall be away ; the moment I’m well enough I must
look out for a place.”

“That’s just what I came to speak to you about. Father is
going to Australia. He is tired of England, and as he lost his
situation on the railway he has made up his mind to emigrate.
It is pretty well all fixed up; he has been to an agency and
they say he’ll ’ave to pay two pounds a ’ead, and that runs to a
lot of money in a big family like ours. So I’m likely to get
left, for father says that I’m old enough to look after myself.
He’s willing to take me if I gets the money, not without.
That’s what I came to tell yer about.”

Esther understood that Jenny had come to ask for money.
She could not give it, and lapsed into thinking of this sudden
loss of all her family. She did not know where Australia was ;
she fancied that she had once heard that it took months to get
there. But she knew that they were all going from her, they .
were going out on the sea in a great ship that would sail and
sail farther and farther away. She could see the ship from her
bedside, at first strangely distinct, alive with hands and
handkerchiefs ; she could distinguish all the children—Jenny,
Julia, and little Ethel. She lost sight of their faces as the ship
cleared the harbour. Soon after the ship was far away on the
great round of waters, again a little while and all the streaming
canvas not larger than a gull’s wing, again a little while and the

126
last speck on the horizon hesitated and disappeared.

‘‘ What are you crying about, Esther? I never saw yer cry
before. You ain’t one to grizzle.”

“I’m so weak. Mother’s death has broken my heart, and
now to know that I shall never see any one of you again.”

“Tt do seem ’ard. We shall miss you sadly.» But I was
going to say that father can’t take me unless I finds two
pounds. You won’t see me stranded, will you, Esther ?”

“ T cannot give you the money, Jenny. Father has had too
much of my money already ; there’s ’ardly enough to see me
through. I’ve only four pounds left. I cannot give you my
child’s money ; God knows how we shall live until I can get to
work again.”

“You're nearly well now. But if yer can’t help me, yer
can’t. I don’t know what’s to be done. Father can’t take
me if I don’t find the money.”

“You say the agency wants two pounds for each person ?”’

““ Yes, that’s it.”

“ And I’ve four. We might both go if it weren’t for the
baby, but I don’t suppose they’d make any charge for a child
on the breast.” 2

“Tdunno. There’s father ; yer know what he is.”

“That’s true. He don’t want me; I’m not one of his.
But, Jenny dear, it is terrible to be left all alone. Poor mother
dead, and all of you going to Australia. I shall never see one
of you again.”

The conversation paused. Esther changed the baby from
the left to the right breast, and Jenny tried to think what she
had best say to induce her sister to give her the money she
wanted.

“Tf you don’t give me the money I shall be left ; it is hard
luck, that’s all, for there’s fine chances for a girl, they says, out
in Australia. If I remain ’ere I dunno what will become of
me.”

“You had better look out for a situation. We shall see
each other from time to time. It’s a pity you don’t know

127
a bit of cooking, enough to take the place of kitchenmaid.”

“TI only know that dog-making, and I’ve ’ad enough of
that.”

“You can always get a situation as general servant in a
lodging-’ouse.” :

“Service in a lodging-’ouse! Not me. You know what
that is. I’m surprised that you’d ask me.”

“ Well, what are yer thinking of doing ?”

“ I was thinking of going on - the pantomime as one of the
hextra ladies, if they'll ’ave me.’ )

“Oh, Jenny, you won’t do that, will you? A theatre is
only sinfulness, as we ’ave always knowed.”

“You know that I don’t ’old with all them preachy-preachy
Brethren says about the theatre.”

“T can’t argue—I ’aven’t the strength, and it stops the flow
of the milk.” And again Esther said, ‘‘ I hope, Jenny, that
you'll take example by me and will do nothing foolish ; you'll
aiways be a good girl.”

“ Yes, if I gets the chance.”

“I’m sorry to ’ear you speak like that, and poor mother only
just dead.”

The words that rose to Jenny’s lips were : “ A nice one you
are, with a baby at your breast, to come a-lecturing me,” but,
fearing Esther’s temper, she checked the dangerous words and
said instead :

“T didn’t mean that I was a-going on the streets right
away this very evening, only that a girl left alone in London
may go wrong, if luck’s against her.”

“A girl never need go wrong; if she does it is always ’er
own fault.” Esther spoke mechanically, but suddenly
remembering her own circumstances she said: “ I’d give you
the money if I dared, but for the child’s sake I mustn’t.”

“ You can afford it well enough—I wouldn’t ask you if you
couldn’t. You'll be earning a pound a week presently.”

“A pound a week! What do you mean, Jenny ?”

“ Yer can get that as wet-nurse, and yer food too.”

.

128

“‘ How do yer know that, Jenny ?”

“ A friend of mine who was ’ere last year told me she got it,
and you can get it too if yer likes. Fancy a pound for the next
six months, and all found. Yer might spare me the money
and let me go to Australia with the others.”

“I'd give yer the money if what you said was true.”

“ Yer can easily find out what I say is the truth by sending
for the matron. Shall I go and fetch her? I won’t bea
minute ; you'll see what she says.”

A few moments after Jenny returned with a good-looking,
middle-aged woman. On her face there was that testy and
perplexed look that comes of much business and many
interruptions. Before she opened her lips her face had said :
“Come, what is it? Be quick about it.”

“Father and the others is going to Australia. Mother’s
dead and was buried last week, so father says there’s nothing
to keep ‘im ’ere, for there is better prospects out there. But
he says he can’t take me, for the agency wants two pounds a
‘ead, and it was all he could do to find the money for the
others. He is just short of two pounds, and as I’m the eldest
barring Esther, who is ’is stepdaughter, ’e says that I had
better stop be’ind, that I’m old enough to get my own living,
which is very ’ard on a girl, for I’m only just turned sixteen.
So I thought that I would come up ’ere and tell my sister <

“ But, my good girl, what has all this got to do with me? I
can’t give you two pounds to go to Australia. You are only
wasting my time for nothing.”

“Kar me out, missis. I want you to explain to my sister
_ that you can get her a situation as a wet-nurse at a pound a
week—that’s the usual money they gets, so I told her but she
won't believe me; but if you tells her, she'll give me two
pounds and I shall be able to go with father to Australia,
where they says there is fine chances for a girl.”

The matron examined disdainfully the vague skirt, the
broken boots, and the misshapen hat, coming all the while
to quick conclusions regarding the moral value of this un-

129
abashed child of the gutter.

“ T think your sister will be very foolish if she gives you her
money.”

“Oh, don’t say that, missis, don’t.”

“* How does she know that your story is true ? co you
are not going to Australia at all.”

“Perhaps I’m not—that’s just what I’m afraid of; but
father is, and I can prove it to you. I’ve brought a letter from
father—’ere it is ; now, is that good enough for yer ?”

“Come, no impertinence, or Ill order you out of the hospital
in double quick time,”’ said the matron. >

“I didn’t mean no impertinence,” said Jenny humbly,
“only I didn’t like to be told I was telling lies when I was
speaking the truth.”

“Well, I see that your father is going to Australia,” the
matron replied, returning the letter to Jenny ; “ you want
your sister to give you her money to take you there too.”

““ What I wants is for you to tell my sister that you can get
her a situation as wet-nurse ; then perhaps she’ll give me the
money.”

“If your sister wants to go out as wet-nurse, I daresay I
could get her a pound a week.”

* But,” said Esther, “I should have to put baby out to
nurse.”

“You'll have to do that in any case,” Jenny interposed ;
“ you can’t live for nine months on your savings and have all
the nourishing food that you'll want to keep your milk
going.”

“If I was yer sister I’d see yer further before I’d give
yer my money. You must ’ave a cheek to come a-asking
for it, to go off to Australia where a girl ’as chances, and
yer sister with a child at the breast left behind. Well I
never !”

Jenny and the matron turned suddenly and looked at the
woman in the opposite bed who had so unexpectedly expressed
her views.

130
“What odds is it to you?” Jenny screamed; “ what
business is it of yours, coming poking your nose in my affairs ?”’
“*Come now, I can’t have any rowing,” exclaimed the

matron.
“ Rowing! I should like to know what business it is of
ers.” ‘

“* Hush, hush, I can’t have you interfering with my patients ;
another word and I'll order you out of the hospital.”

“‘ Horder me out of the horspital! and what for? Who
began it? No, missis, be fair ; wait until my sister gives her
answer.”

“ Well, then, she must be quick about it—I can’t wait about
here all day.”

** P'll give my sister the money to take her to Australia if you
say you can get me a situation as wet-nurse.”

“Yes, I think I can do that. It was four pounds five that
you gave me tokeep. I remember the amount, for since I’ve
been here no one has come with quarter that. If they have
five shillings they think they can buy half London.”

“My sister is very careful,” said Jenny, sententiously.
The matron looked sharply at her and said :

“Now come along with me—I’m going to fetch your
sister’s money. I can’t leave you here—you’d get quarrelling
with my patients.”

“* No, missis, indeed I won’t say nothing to her.”

“Do as I tell you. Come along with me.”

So with a passing scowl Jenny expressed her contempt for
the woman who had come “ poking ’er nose in ’er business,”
and went after the matron, watching her every movement, and
when they came back Jenny’s eyes were fixed on the matron’s
fat hand as if she could see the yellow metal through the
fingers.

“ Here is your money,” said the matron ; “ four pounds five.
You can give your sister what you like.”

Esther held the four sovereigns and the two half-crowns in
her hand for a moment, then she said :

131

“ Here, Jenny, are the two pounds you want to take you to
Australia. I ’ope they'll bring you good luck, and that you'll
think of me sometimes.”

“ Indeed I will, Esther. You’ve been a good sister to me,
that you ’ave ; I shall never forget you, and will write to you.
It is very ’ard parting.”

“ Come, come, never mind those tears. You have got your
money ; say good-bye to your sister and run along.”

“ Don’t be so ’eartless,” cried Jenny, whose susceptibilities
were now on the move. “ ’Ave yer no feeling? Don’t yer
know what it is to bid good-bye to yer sister, and perhaps for
ever?” Jenny flung herself into Esther’s arms crying
bitterly. ‘‘ Oh, Esther, I do love you; yer ’ave been so kind
to me I shall never forget it. I shall be very lonely without
you. Write to me sometimes ; it will be a comfort to hear
how you are getting on. IfI marry I’llsend for you, and you'll
bring the baby.”

“ Do you think I’d leave him behind? Kiss ’im before you

2?

go.

“ Good-bye, Esther ; take care of yourself.”

She was now alone in the world, and she remembered the
night in her mind when she walked home from the hospital.
She lay dreaming of those who were going away for ever.
She was now alone in a great wilderness with her child, for
whom she would have to work for many, many years, and did
not know how it would all end. Would she be able to live
through it? Had she done right in letting Jenny have the
money? She should not have given it ; but she hardly knew
what she was doing, she was so weak, and the news of her
mother’s death overcame her. She should not have given
Jenny her boy’s money. But perhaps it might turn out all
right after all. Ifthe matron got her a situation as wet-nurse
she’d be able to pull through. “‘ So they would part us,’ she
whispered, bending over the sleeping child. ‘‘ There is no
help for it, my poor darling. There’s no help for it, no help
for it.”

132

Next day Esther was taken out of bed. She spent part of
the afternoon sitting in an easy-chair, and Mrs. Jones came to
see her. The little old woman seemed like one whom she had
known always, and Esther told her about her mother’s death
and the departure of her family for Australia. Mrs. Jones
bade her cheer up, saying that things were never asbad as they
seemed, and she fell to thinking that no more than a week lay
between her and the beginning of the struggle which she
dreaded. She had been told that they did not usually keep
anyone in the hospital more than a fortnight. But the matron
would do all she could, which was not, however, very much, for
three days after Mrs. Jones’ visit she came into the room
hurriedly. |

2 I’m very sorry,” she said, “ but a number of new patients .
are expected ; there’s nothing for it but to get rid of you. It
is a pity, for I can see you are both very weak.”

““ What, me too ? ” said the woman in the other bed. “I
can hardly stand ; I tried just now to get across the room.”

“ T’m very sorry, but we’ve new patients coming, and there’s
all our spring cleaning. Have you any place to go to?”

“No place except a lodging,” said Esther; “and I have
only two pounds five now.” ~

“ What’s the use in taking us at all if you fling us out on the
street when we can hardly walk ?” said the other woman. “I
wish I had gone and drowned myself. I was very near doing
it. If I had it would be all over now for me and the poor
baby.”

“ T’m used to all this ingratitude,” said the matron. ‘“‘ You
have got through your confinement very comfortably, and
your baby is quite healthy ; I hope you'll try and keep it so.
Have you any money ?”

“Only four and sixpence.”

“ Have you got any friends to whom you can go ?”

“No.”

“Then you'll have to apply for admission to the workhouse.”

The woman made no answer, and at that moment two

133
sisters came and forcibly began to dress her. She fell back
from time to time in their arms, almost fainting.

“Lord, what a job!” said one sister ; ‘“‘ she’s just like so
much lead in one’s arms. But if we listened to them we
should have them loafing here over a month more,” and, as
Esther did not require so much assistance, the sister said,
“Oh, you are as strong as they make ’em; you might have
gone two days ago.”

“You’re no better than brutes,’’ Esther muttered. Then
turning to the matron, she said, ‘‘ You promised to get me a
situation as wet-nurse.””

“Yes, so I did, but the lady to whom I intended to re-
commend you wrote this morning to say that she had suited
herself.”

“ But do you think you could get me a situation as wet-
nurse ?”’ said the other woman; “it would save me from
going to the workhouse.”

“ T really don’t know what to do with you all; you all want
to stop in the hospital at least a month, eating and drinking
the best of everything, and then you want situations as wet-
nurses at a pound a week.”

“ But,” said Esther, indignantly, “I never should have
given my sister two pounds if you hadn’t told me you could get
me the situation.”

“‘ I’m sorry,” said the matron, “ to have to send you away.
I should like to have kept you, but really there is no help for
it. As for the situation, I’ll do the best I can. It is true that
the place I intended for you is filled up, but there will be
another shortly, and you shall have the first. Give me your
address. I shall not keep you long waiting, you can depend
uponme. Youarestill very weak, cansee that. Would you
like to have one of the nurses to walk round with you? You
had better—you might fall and hurt the baby. My word, he
is a fine boy.”

“Yes, he is a beautiful boy ; it will break my heart to part
with him.”

134

Some eight or nine poor girls stood outside, dressed alike in
dingy garments, like half-dead flies trying to crawl through an
October afternoon; and with their babies and a keen wind
blowing, they found it difficult to hold on their hats.

“It do catch you a bit rough, coming out of them ’ot
rooms,” said a woman standing by her. “ I’m,.that weak
I can ’ardly carry my baby. I dunno ’ow I shall get as far as
the Edgware Road. Itake my bus there. Are you going that
way?”

“* No, I’m going close by, round the corner.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Her hair hung about her, her hands and wrists were shrunken,
her flesh was soft and flabby, for suckling her child seemed to
draw all strength from her, and her nervous depression
increased from day to day, she being too weary and ill to
think of the future; and for a whole week her physical
condition held her to the exclusion of every other thought.
’ Mrs. Jones was very kind, charging her only ten shillings a
week for her board and lodging ; but this was a great deal
when no more than two pounds five shillings remained be-
tween her and the workhouse, and this fact was brought home
to her sternly when Mrs. Jones came to her for the first week’s
money. ‘Ten shillings gone ; only one pound fifteen shillings
left, and still she was so weak that she could hardly get up and
down stairs. But if she were twice as weak, if she had to
crawl along the street on her hands and knees, she must go to
the hospital and implore the matron to find her a situation as
wet-nurse, Well, it was raining heavily, and Mrs. Jones said
it was madness for her to go out in such weather, but go she
must ; and, though it was but a few hundred yards, she often
thought she’d like to lie down and die. At the hospital
disappointment awaited her. Why hadn’t she called yester-
day? Yesterday two ladies of title had come and taken two

135

girls away. Such a chance might not occur for some time.
“ For some time,” thought Esther. ‘‘ Very soon I shall have
to apply for admission at the workhouse.” She reminded the
matron of her promise, and returned home more dead than
alive. Mrs. Jones helped her to change her clothes, and bade
her be of good heart. Esther looked at her hopelessly, and
sitting down on the edge of her bed she put the baby to her
breast.

Another week passed. She had been to the hospital every
day, but no one had been to inquire for a wet-nurse. Her
money was reduced to a few shillings, and she tried to re-
concile herself to the idea that she might do worse than
accept the harsh shelter of the workhouse. Her nature
revolted against it; but she must do what was best for the
child, and often asked herself how it would all end. And the
more she thought, the more terrible did the future seem. Her
miserable thoughts were interrupted by a footstep on the
stairs. It was Mrs. Jones, coming to tell her that a lady who
wanted a wet-nurse had come from the hospital ; and a lady
dressed in a beautiful brown silk came in, and looked around
the humble room, clearly shocked at its poverty. Esther,
who was sitting on the bed, rose to meet the fine lady—a thin
woman, with narrow temples, aquiline features, bright eyes,
and a disagreeable voice.

“You are the young person who wants a situation as wet
nurse ?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ Are you married ?”

“No, ma’am.”

“ Ts that your first child ?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ah! that’sapity. But it doesn’t matter much, so long a
you and your baby are healthy. Will you show it to me ?”

“He is asleep now, ma’am,” Esther said, raising the
bedclothes. ‘“‘ There never was a healthier child.”

“Yes, he seems healthy enough. You have a good

kK

136
supply of milk ?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ Fifteen shillings, and all found. Does that suit you?”

“ Thad expected a pound a week.”

“It is only your first baby. Fifteen shillings is quite
enough. Of course, I only engage you subject to the doctor’s
approval. I'll ask him to call.”

“Very well, ma’am ; I shall be glad of the place.”

“ Then it is settled. You can come at once ?”

‘‘ I must arrange to put my baby out to nurse, ma’am.”’

The lady’s face clouded. But following up another train of
thought, she said :

“ Of course, you must arrange about your baby, and I hope
you'll make proper arrangements. Tell the woman in whose
charge you leave it that I shall want to see it every three
weeks. It will be better so,’ she added, under her breath,
“ for two have died already.”

“This is my card,” said the lady—‘‘ Mrs. Rivers, Curzon
Street, Mayfair—and I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon
—that is to say, if the doctor approves of you. Here is one
and sixpence for your cab fare.”

“Thank you,ma’am.” _

“* T shall expect you not later than four o’clock. I hope you
won’t disappoint me. Remember, my child is waiting.”

And when Mrs. Rivers left, Esther asked Mrs. Jones what
she was todo. She’d have to find somebody to look after her
child. It was now just after two o’clock. Baby was asleep,
and would want nothing for three or four hours, and Mrs.
Jones gave her the address of a respectable woman. But this
woman was looking after twins, and could not undertake the
charge of another baby. Esther visited many streets, always
failing for one reason or another, till at last she found herself in
Wandsworth, in a battered, tumbledown little street, no
thoroughfare, only four houses, a coal-shed, and some broken
wooden palings. In the area of No. 3 three mites were
playing, and at Esther’s call a short, fat woman came out

137
of the kitchen, her dirty apron sloping over her high stomach,
and her pale brown hair twisted into a knot at the top of her
head.

“Well, what is it ?”

“T came about putting a child out to nurse. You are
Mrs. Spires, ain’t yer ?”

“Yes, that’s my name. May I ask who sent you ?”

Esther told her, and then Mrs. Spires asked her to step
down into the kitchen.

“Them there children you saw in the area I looks after
while their mothers are out washing or charing.. They takes
them ’ome in the evening. I only charges them fourpence a
day, and it is a loss at that, for they takes a lot of minding.
What age is yours ?”

“‘ Mine is only a month old. I’ve a chance to go out as wet-
nurse if I can find a place to put him out to nurse. Will you
look after my baby ?”

“ How much do you think of paying for him ?”

“ Five shillings a week.”

“ And you a-going out as wet-nurse at a pound a week ;
you can afford more than that.”

“ I’m only getting fifteen shillings a week.”

“ Well, you can afford to pay six. I tell you the respon-
sibility of looking after a hinfant is that awful nowadays that I
don’t care to undertake it for less.”

Esther hesitated, for she didn’t like this woman.

“T suppose,” said the woman, altering her tone to one of
mild interrogation, “‘ you would like your baby to have the
best of everything, and not the drainings of any bottle that’s
handy ?”

“ T should like my child to be well looked after, and I must
see him every three weeks.”

“Do you expect me to bring up the child to wherever the
lady lives, and pay my bus fare, all out of five shillings a
week? Itcan’t be done!’ Esther didn’t answer. “ You
ain’t married, of course ?”” Mrs. Spires said suddenly.

138

“No, I ain’t ; what about that ?”

“ Oh, nothing ; there is so many of you, that’s all. You
can’t lay yer ’and on the father and get a bit out of ‘im ?”

They stopped speaking. Esther looked round suspiciously,
and noticing the look the woman said :

“Your baby will be well looked after ’ere 3 anice warm
kitchen, and I’ve no other babies for the moment; them
children don’t give no trouble, they plays in the area. You
had better let me have the child ; you won’t do better than
ferese

Esther promised to think it over and let her know to-
morrow. It took her many omnibuses to get home, and it was
quite dark when she pushed the door to. The first thing that
caught her ear was her child crying. ‘“‘ What is the matter ?”
she cried, hurrying down the passage.

“Oh, is that you? Youhave been away atime. The poor
child is that hungry he has been crying this hour or more. If
I’d ’ad a bottle I’d ’ave given him a little milk.”

“Hungry, is he? Then he shall have plenty soon. It is
nearly the last time I shall give the poor darling my breast.”
' She told Mrs. Jones about Mrs. Spires, and both women tried
to arrive at a decision. -

“* Since you ’ave to put the child out to nurse, you might as
well put him there as elsewhere ; the woman will look after
him as well as she can—she’ll do that, if it is for the sake of the
six shillings a week.”

“Yes, yes, I know ; but I’ve always heard that children die
that are put out to nurse. If mine died I never should forgive
myself,”

She could not sleep ; she lay with her arms about her baby,
distracted at the thought of parting from him, and wondering
what had she done that her baby should be separated from
her? And of all what had the poor little darling done? He
at least was innocent; yet he was to be deprived of his
mother. And at midnight she threw her legs out of bed,
lighted a candle, looked at him, took him in her arms, squeezed

139
him to her bosom till he cried, and the thought came that it
would be sweeter to kill him with her own hands than to be
parted from him. :

But the thought of murder went with the night, and she
almost enjoyed thé journey to Wandsworth. Her baby
laughed and cooed, and was much admired in the omnibus,
and the little street where Mrs. Spires lived seemed different.
A cart of hay was being unloaded, and this gave the place a
pleasant rural air. Mrs. Spires, too, was cleaner, tidier ;
Esther no longer disliked her ; she had a nice little cot ready
for the baby, and he seemed so comfortable in it that Esther
did not feel the pain at parting which she had expected to feel.
She would see him in a few weeks, and in those weeks she
would be richer. It seemed quite wonderful to earn so much
money in so short a time, and she returned thinking that her
luck seemed to have turned at last ; and so engrossed was she
in thoughts and dreams of her good fortune that she nearly
forgot to get out of her bus at Charing Cross, and had it not
been for the attention of the conductor might have gone on,
she did not know where—perhaps to Clerkenwell, or maybe to
Islington. And when the second bus turned into Oxford
Street she jumped out, not wishing to spend more money than
she could help. Mrs. Jones approved of all she had done,
aided her to pack up her box, and sent her away full of the
adventure and the prospect. She went wondering if the
house she was going to was as grand as Woodview, and was
much struck by the appearance of the maidservant who
opened the door to her.

“Oh, here you are,” Mrs. Rivers said. “I have been
anxiously expecting you ; my baby is not at all well. Come
up to the nursery at once. I don’t know your name,” she said,
turning to Esther.

“* Waters, ma’am.”

“Emily, you'll see that Waters’ box is taken to her
room.”

** T’ll see to it, ma’am.”

140

“Then come up at once, Waters. I hope you'll succeed
better than the others.”

A tall, handsome gentleman stood at the door of a room full
of beautiful things, and as they went past him Mrs. Rivers
said, ‘‘ This is the new nurse, dear.”” Higher up, Esther saw a
bedroom of soft hangings and bright porcelain. Then another
staircase, and the little wail of a child caught on the ear, and
Mrs. Rivers said, “‘ The poor little thing; it never ceases
crying. Take it, Waters, take ates

Esther sat down, and soon the little thing ceased crying.

“ It seems to take to you,” said the anxious mother.

“‘ So it seems,” said Esther ; “ it is a wee thing, not half the
size of my boy.”

“I hope the milk will suit her, and that she won’t bring it
up. This is our last chance.”

““T daresay she will come round, ma’am. I suppose you
weren’t strong enough to suckle her yourself, and yet you

looks ’ealthy.”’
“I? No, I could not undertake to nurse it.” Then,

glancing suspiciously at Esther, whose breast was like a little
cup, Mrs. Rivers said, “‘ I hope you have plenty of milk ?”

“ Oh, yes, ma’am ; they said at the hospital I could bring up
twins.”

“Your supper will be ready at nine. But that will be a long

time for you to wait. I told them to cut you some sandwiches,
and you'll have a glass of porter. Or perhaps you'd prefer to
wait till supper? You can have your supper, you know, at
eight, if you like ?”
’ Esther took a sandwich and Mrs. Rivers poured out a glass
of porter. And later in the evening Mrs. Rivers came down
from her drawing-room to see that Esther’s supper was all
right, and, not satisfied with the handsome fare that had been
laid before her child’s nurse, she went into the kitchen and
gave strict orders that the meat for the future was not to be
quite so much cooked.

Something jarred, however; such constant mealing did

141
not seem natural, and her self-respect was wounded ; she
hated her position in this house, and sought and found con-
solation in the thought that she was earning good money for
her baby. She noticed, too, that she never was allowed out
alone, and that her walks were limited to just enough exercise
to keep her in health.

A fortnight passed, and one afternoon, after having put
baby to sleep, she said to Mrs. Rivers, “‘ I hope, ma’am, youll
be able to spare me for a couple of hours ; baby won’t want
me before then. I’m very anxious about my little one.”

“Oh, nurse, I couldn’t possibly hear of it ; such a thing is
never allowed. You can write to the woman, if you like.”

**T do not know how to write, ma’am.”

“Then you can get someone to write for you. But your
baby is no doubt all right.”

“* But, ma’am, you are uneasy about your baby ; you are up
in the nursery twenty times a day ; it is only natural I should
be uneasy about mine.”

“* But, nurse, I’ve no one to send with you.”

“There is no reason why anybody should go with me,
ma’am ; I can take care of myself.”

“What! let you go off all the way to—where did you say
you had left it—Wandsworth?—by yourself! I really
couldn’t think of it. I don’t want to be unnecessarily hard—
but I really couldn’t—no mother could. But I don’t want you
to agitate yourself, and if you like I’ll write myself to the
woman who has charge of your baby. I cannot do more, and I
hope you'll be satisfied.”

By what right, by what law, was she separated from her
child? She was tired of hearing Mrs. Rivers speak of ‘‘ my
child, my child, my child,” and of seeing this fine lady turn up
her nose when she spoke of her own beautiful boy. And
when Mrs. Rivers came to engage her she said that it would be
better for the baby to be brought to see her every three or four
weeks, for two had died already. At the time she had not
understood. She supposed vaguely, in a passing way, that

142

Mrs. Rivers had already lost two children. But yesterday the
housemaid told her that that little thing in the cradle had had
two wet-nurses before Esther, and that both their babies had
died. It was then a life for a life. It was more. For the.
children of two poor girls had been sacrificed so that this rich
woman’s child might be saved. Even that was not enough :
the life of her beautiful boy was called for. And then other
memories swept by. She remembered vague hints, allusions
that Mrs. Spires had thrown out ; and, as in a dream darkly, it
seemed to this ignorant girl that she was the victim of a far-
reaching conspiracy ; she experienced the sensation of the
captured animal, and scanned the doors and windows, thinking
of some means of escape.

At that moment a knock was heard and the housemaid came
in.

“The woman who has charge of your baby has come to see
you.”

Esther started up from her chair, and fat little Mrs. Spires
waddled into the room, the ends of her shawl touching the
_ ground.

“Where is my baby?” said Esther. ‘‘ Why haven’t you
brought him ? ” .

““ Why, you see, my dear, the sweet little thing didn’t seem
as well as usual this afternoon, and I didn’t like to bring ‘im
out, it being a long way and a trifle cold. But it is nice and
warm in here. May I sit down?”

“* Yes, there’s a chair ; but tell me what is the matter with
him?”

“A little cold, dear—nothing to speak of. You must not
worry yourself, it isn’t worth while ; besides, it’s bad for you
and the little darling in the cradle. May Ihave alook? A
little girl, isn’t it?”

Les ib is. asgien

“ And a beautiful little girl too. “Ow ’ealthy she do look !
I'll be bound you have made a difference in her. I suppose
you are beginning to like her just as if she was your own ?”

143

Esther did not answer

“Yer know, all you girls are dreadful taken with your
babies at first.- But they is a awful drag on a girl who gets her
living in service. For my part I do think it a providence that
rich folk don’t sucklé their own. If they did, I dunno what
would become of all you poor girls. The situation of wet-
nurse is just what you wants at the time, and it is good money.
I hope yer did what I told you and stuck out for a pound a
week. Rich folk like these ’ere would think nothing of a
pound a week, nor yet two, when they sees their child is
suited.”

“Never mind about my money, that’s my affair. Tell me
what’s the matter with my baby ?”

“Ow yer do arp on it! I’ve told yer that ’e’s all right ;
nothing to worry about, only a little poorly, but knowing you
was anxious I thought it better tocome up. I didn’t know but
what you might like to ’ave in the doctor.”

““ Does he require the doctor? I thought you said it was
nothing to worry about.”

“ That depends on ’ow yer looks at it. Some likes to ’ave in
the doctor, however little the ailing ; then others won’t ’ave
anything to do with doctors—don’t believe in them. So I
thought I’d come up and see what you thought about it. I
would ’ave sent for the doctor this morning—I’m one of those.
who ’as faith in doctors—but being a bit short of money I
thought I’d come up and ask you for a trifle.”

At that moment Mrs. Rivers came into the nursery and her
first look went in the direction of the cradle, then she turned to
consider curtseying Mrs. Spires.

“ This is Mrs. Spires, the lady who is looking after my baby,
ma’am,” said Esther; “‘ she has come with bad news—my
baby is ill.”

“Oh, I’msorry. But I daresay it is nothing.”

“ But Mrs. Spires says, ma’am——””’

“ Yes, ma’am, the little thing seemed a bit poorly, and I
being short of money, ma’am, I had to come and see nurse.

14:4
I knows right well that they must not be disturbed, and of
course your child’s ’ealth is everything ; but if I may make so
bold I’d like to say that the little dear do look beautiful.
Nurse is bringing her up that well that yer must have every
satisfaction in ’er.”

“Yes, she seems to suit the child ; that’s the redson I don’t
want her upset.”

“ It won’t occur again, ma'am, I promise you.”

Esther did not answer, and her white, sullen face remained
unchanged. She had a great deal on her mind, and would
have spoken if the words did not seem to betray her when she
attempted to speak.

“‘ When the baby is well, and the doctor is satisfied there is
no danger of infection, you can bring it here—once a month
will be sufficient. Is there anything more ?”’

“ Mrs. Spires thinks my baby ought to see the doctor.”

“Well, let her send for the doctor.”

“ Being a bit short of money i

‘ How much is it ? ” said Esther.

“ Well, what we pays is five shillings to the doctor, but then

there’s the medicine he will order, and I was going to speak to
you about a piece of flannel: if yer could let me have ten
shillings to go on with.”

“ But I haven’t so much left. I must see my baby,” and
Esther moved towards the door.

“No, no, nurse, I cannot hear of it; I’d sooner pay the
money myself. Now, how much do you want, Mrs. Spires ?”

“Ten shillings will do for the present, ma’am.”

““ Here they are ; let the child have every attendance, and
' remember you are not to come troubling my nurse. Above
all, you are not to come up to the nursery. I don’t know how
it happened, it was a mistake on the part of the new house-
maid. You must have my permission before you see my
nurse.” And while talking rapidly and imperatively Mrs.
Rivers, as it were, drove Mrs. Spires out of the nursery.
Esther could hear them talking on the staircase, and she

145
listened, all the while striving to collect her thoughts. Mrs.
Rivers said when she returned, “ I really cannot allow her to
come here upsetting you.” Then, as if impressed by the
sombre look on Esther’s face, she added: “‘Upsetting you
about nothing. I assure you it will be all right ; only a little
indisposition.”

“I must see my baby,” Esther replied.

“Come, nurse, you shall see your baby the moment the
doctor says it is fit to come here. You can’t expect me to do
more than that.’”” Esther did not move, and thinking that it
would not be well to argue with her, Mrs. Rivers went over to
the cradle. “See, nurse, the little darling has just woke up ;
come and take her, I’m sure she wants you.”

Esther did not answer her. She stood looking into space,
and it seemed to Mrs. Rivers that it would be better not to
provoke a scene. She went towards the door slowly, but a
little cry from the cradle stopped her, and she said :

“‘Come, nurse, whatis it? Come,the baby is waiting for you.”

Then, like one waking from a dream, Esther said: “ If my
baby is all right, ma’am, I’ll come back, but if he wants me,
I'll have to look after him first.”

“You forget that I’m paying you fifteen shillings a week.
I pay you for nursing my baby ; you.take my money, that’s
sufficient.”

“Yes, I do take your money, ma’am. But the house-
maid has told me that you had two wet-nurses before me, and
that both their babies died, so I cannot stop here now that
mine’s ill. Everyone for her own; youcan’t blameme. I’m
sorry for yours—poor little tang; she was getting on nicely,
too.”

“ But, Waters, you won’t leave my baby. It’s cruel of you.
If I could nurse it myself:

“ Why couldn’t you, ma’am? You look fairly strong and
healthy.”

Esther spoke in her quiet, stolid way, finding her words
unconsciously.

146

“ You don’t know what you're saying, nurse ; you can’t.
You’ve forgotten yourself. Next time I engage a nurse I’ll
try to get one who has lost her baby, and then there'll be no
bother.”

“ It is a life for a life—more than that, ma’am—two lives for
a life ; and now the life of my boy is asked for.” \

A strange look passed over Mrs. Rivers’ face. She knew, of
course, that she stood well within the law, that she was doing
no more than a hundred other fashionable women were doing
at the same moment ; but this plain girl had a plain way of
putting things, and she did not care for it to be publicly known
that the life of her child had been bought with the lives of two
poor children. But her temper was getting the better of her.

“ He’ll only be adrag on you. You'll never be able to bring
him up, poor little bastard child.”

“ It is wicked of you to speak like that, ma’am, though it is I
who am saying it. It is none of the child’s fault if he hasn't
got a father, nor is it right that he should be deserted for that,
and it is not for you to tell me to do such a thing. If you had
made sacrifice of yourself in the beginning and nursed your
- own child such thoughts wouldn’t have come to you. But
when you hire a poor girl such as me to give the milk that
belongs to another to your child, you think nothing of the poor
deserted one. He is only a love-child, you say, and had better
be dead and done with. Iseeit allnow; I have been thinking
it out. It is all so hidden up that the meaning is not clear at
first, but what it comes to is this, that fine folks like you pays
the money, and Mrs. Spires and her like gets rid of the poor
little things. Change the milk a few times, a little neglect,
and the poor servant-girl is spared the trouble of bringing up
her baby and can make a handsome child of the rich woman’s
little starveling.”

At that moment the baby began to cry; both women
looked in the direction of the cradle.

“Nurse, you have forgotten yourself, you have talked a
great deal of nonsense, you have said a great deal that is

147
untrue. You accused me of wishing your baby were dead ;
indeed, I hardly know what wild remarks you did not indulge
in. Ofcourse, I cannot put up with such conduct—to-morrow
you will come to me and apologise. In the meantime the
baby wants you ; are you not going to her? ”

“T’m going to my own child.”

“ That means that you refuse to nurse my baby ?”

“Yes ; I’m going straight to look after my own.”

“ If you leave my house you shall never enter it again.”

“ T don’t want to enter it again.”

““T shall not pay you one shilling if you leave my baby.
You have no money.”

“* T shall try to manage without. I shall go with my baby to
the workhouse. However bad the living may be there, he’ll
be with his mother.”

“If you go to-night my baby will die. She cannot be
brought up on the bottle.”

“Oh, I hope not, ma’am. I should be sorry, indeed I
should.”

“Then stay, nurse.”

“ T must go to my baby, ma’am.”’

“Then you shall go at once—this very instant.”

“ I’m going this very instant, as soon as I’ve put on my hat
and jacket.”

“ You had better take your box with you If you don't,
I shall have it thrown into the street.”

“ I daresay you're cruel enough to do that if the law allows
you, only be careful that it do.”

CHAPTER XIX

Tur moment Esther got out of the house in Curzon Street
she felt in her pocket for her money. She had only a few
pence—enough for her bus fare, however, and her thoughts
did not go further. She was absorbed by one desire, how to

148

save her child—how to save him from Mrs. Spires, whom
she vaguely suspected’; from the world, which called him
a bastard, and denied to him the right to live. And she
sat as if petrified in the corner of the bus, seeing nothing
but a little street of four houses facing some hay-lofts, the
low-pitched kitchen, the fat woman, the cradle in the corner.
The intensity and the oneness of her desire seemed to an-
nihilate time, and when she got out of the omnibus she
walked with a sort of animal-like instinct straight for the
house. There was a light in the kitchen just as she expected,
and as she descended the four wooden steps into the area she
looked to see if Mrs. Spires was there. She was there, and
Esther pushed open the door.

““ Where’s my baby ?”

** Lord, ’ow yer did frighten me !” said Mrs. Spires, turning
from the range and leaning against the table, which was laid
for supper. ‘“‘ Coming like that into other folk’s places with-
out a word of warning—without as much as knocking at the
door.”

“ T beg your pardon, but I was anxious about my baby.”

“Was you indeed? It is easy to see it is the first one.
There it is in the cradle there.”

““ Have you sent for the doctor ?”

“Sent for the doctor! I’ve to get my husband’s supper.”

Esther took her baby out of the cradle. It woke up crying,
and Esther said: ‘‘ You don’t mind my sitting down a
moment. The poor little thing wants its mother.”

“ If Mrs. Rivers saw you now a-nursing of yer baby ?”

“ T shouldn’t care if she did. He’s thinner than when I left
him ; ten days ’ave made a difference in him.”

“Well, yer don’t expect a child to do as well without its
mother as with her. But tell me, how did yer get out? You
must have come away shortly after me.”

“TI wasn’t going to stop there and my child ill.”

“Yer don’t mean to tell me that yer ’ave gone and thrown
hup the situation?”’

149

“ She told me, if I went out, I should never enter her door
again,”

“ And what did you say ?”

“ Told her I didn’t want to.”

“ And what, may I ask, are yer thinking of doing? I ’eard
yer say yer ’ad no money.”

“T don’t know ”

“Take my advice, and go straight back and ask ’er to
overlook it, this once.”

“Oh no, she’d never take me back.”

“Yes, she will. You suits the child, and that’s all they
thinks of.”

“T don’t know what will become of me and my baby.”

“No more don’t I. Yer can’t stop always in the work’us,
and a baby’ll be a ’eavy drag on you. Can’t you lay ’ands on
‘is father some’ow ?”

Esther shook her head, and Mrs. Spires noticed that she was
crying.

“Tm all alone,” she said ; “‘ I don’t know ’ow I’m ever to
pull through.”

“Not with that child, yer won’t—it ain’t possible. You
girls is all alike ; yer thinks of nothing but yer babies for the
first few weeks, then yer tires of them, the drag on yer is that
*eavy—I knows yer—and then yer begins to wish they ’ad
never been born, or yer wishes they had died afore they knew
they was alive I don’t say I’m not often sorry for them, poor
little dears, but they takes less notice than you’d think for, and
they’re better out of the way, and that’s a fact ; it saves a lot
of trouble hereafter. I often do think that to neglect them, to
let them go off quiet, that I be their best friend ; not wilful
neglect, yer know, but what is a woman to do with ten or a
dozen, and I often ’as as many? I am sure they’d thank me
for it.”

Esther did not answer, but judging by her face that she had
lost all hope, Mrs. Spires was tempted to continue,

“ There’s that other baby in the far corner that was brought

150
"ere since you was ’ere by a servant-girl like yerself. She’s out
a-nursing of a lady’s child, getting a pound a week, just as you
was Well, now, I asks ’ow she can ‘ope to bring up that ’ere
child—a weakly little thing that wants the doctor and all sorts
of looking after. If that child was to live, it would be the ruin
of that girl’s life. Don’t yer ’ear what I’m saying ?”

“Yes, I hear,” said Esther, speaking like one in a dream =
“* don’t she care for her baby, then ?”

“* She used to care for them, but if they had all lived I should
like to know where she’d be. There ’as been three of them—

that’s the third—so, instead of them a-costing ’er money, they
~ brings ’er money. She ’as never failed yet to suit ’erself in a
situation as wet-nurse.”

“ And they all died ?”

“* Yes, they all died ; and this little one don’t look as if it was
long for the world, do it ?” said Mrs. Spires, who had taken the
infant from the cradle; and Esther looked at the poor
wizened features, twitched with pain.

“It goes to my ’eart,” said Mrs. Spires, “ it do indeed but,
Lord, it is the best that could ’appen to ’em ; who’s to care for
-’em? and there is ’undreds and ’undreds of them—ay,
thousands and. thousands every year—and they all dies like
the early flies. It is ’ard, very ’ard, poor little dears, but
they’re best out of the way—they’re only an expense and a
disgrace.”

Mrs. Spires talked on in a rapid, soothing, soporific voice.
She had just finished pouring some milk in the baby’s bottle
and had taken down a jug of water from the dresser.

“But that’s cold water,” said Esther, waking from the
stupor of her despair; “
. certain.”

“ T’ve no ’ot water ready ; I'll let the bottle stand afore the
fire, that’ll do as well.” Watching Esther all the while, Mrs.
Spires held the bottle a few moments before the fire, and then
gave it to the child to suck. Very soon after a cry of pain
came from the cradle.

it will give the baby gripes for

151

“ The little dear never was well; it wouldn’t surprise me
a bit if it died—went off before morning. It do look that
poorly. One can’t ’elp being sorry for them, though one
knows there is no ’ouse for them ’ere. Poor little angels,
and not even baptised. There’s them that thinks a lot
of getting that over. But who’s to baptise the little
angels ?”

“‘ Baptise them ?” Esther repeated. ‘‘ That’s not the way
with the Lord’s people ;” and to escape from a too over-
powering reality she continued to repeat the half-forgotten
patter of the Brethren, ‘‘ You must wait until it is a symbol of
living faith in the Lord!’ And taking the baby in her hands
for a moment, the wonder crossed her mind whether he would
ever grow up and find salvation and testify to the Lord as an
adult in voluntary baptism.

All the while Mrs. Spires was getting on with her cooking.
Several times she looked as if she were going to speak, and
several times she checked herself. In truth, she didn’t know
what to make of Esther. Was her love of her child such love
as would enable her to put up with all hardships for its sake ;
or was it the fleeting affection of the ordinary young mother,
which, though ardent at first, gives way under difficulties ?
Mrs. Spires had heard many mothers talk as Esther talked,
but when the real strain of life was put upon them they had
yielded to the temptation of ridding themselves of their
burdens. So Mrs. Spires could not believe that Esther was
really different from the others, and if carefully handled she
would do what the others had done. Still, there was some-
thing in Esther which kept Mrs. Spires from making any
distinct proposal. Butit were a pity to let the girl slip through
her fingers—five pounds were not picked up every day.
There were three five-pound notes in the cradles ; if Esther
would listen to reason there would be twenty pounds. And
once more greed set Mrs. Spires’ tongue flowing, and, repre-
senting herself as a sort of guardian angel, she spoke again
about the mother of the dying child, pressing Esther to

L

*

152
think what the girl’s circumstances would have been if all her
babies had lived

“ And they all died ?” said Esther.

“Yes, and a good job, too,” said Mrs. Spires, whose
temper for the moment outsped her discretion. Was this
penniless drab doing it on purpose to annoy her ?\ A nice one
indeed to high-and-mighty it over her. She would show her
in mighty quick time she had come to the wrong shop. Just
as Mrs. Spires was about to speak out she noticed that Esther
was intears. Mrs. Spires always looked upon tears as a good
sign, so she resolved to give her one more chance. ‘‘ What
are you crying about ?” she said.

“Oh,” said Esther, “ I don’t even know where I shall sleep
to-night. I have only threepence, and not a friend in the
world.”

“Now look ’ere, if you'll listen to reason I'll talk to you.
Yer mustn’t look upon me as a henemy. I’ve been a good
friend to many a poor girl like you afore now, and I'll be one
to you if you’re sensible like. I'll do for you what I’m doing

for the other girl. Give me five poun

“ Five pounds! I’ve only a few pence.”

“Ear me out. Go back to yer situation—she’ll take you
back.: yer suits the child, that’s all she cares about. Ask ’er
for an advance of five pounds ; she'll give it when she ’ears it
is to get rid of yer child. They ’ates their nurses to be
a-’ankering after their own ; they likes them to be forgotten
like ; they asks if the child is dead very often, and won’t
engage them if it isn’t. So believe me she'll give yer the
money when yer tells er that it is to give the child to someone
who wants to adopt it. That’s what you ’as to say.”

“And you'll take the child off my hands for ever for five
pounds ?”

“Yes; and if you likes to go out again as wet-nurse, I'll
take the second off yer ’ands too, and at the same price.”

“You wicked woman! Oh, this is awful!”

“Come, come. ‘What do you mean by talking to me like

153
that? And because I offered to find someone who would
adopt your child.”

“You did nothing of the kind; ever since I’ve been in
your house you have been trying to get me to give you up
my child to murder as‘you are murdering those poor innocents
in the cradles.”

“Tt is a lie, but I don’t want no hargument with yer ; pay
me what you owe me and take yerself hoff. I want no more
of yer, do you ’ear ?”

Esther did not shrink before her as Mrs. Spires expected.
Clasping her baby more tightly, she said: ‘‘ I’ve paid you
what I owe you; you've had more than your due. Mrs.
Rivers gave you ten shillings for a doctor which you didn’t
send for. Let me go.”

“Yes, when yer pays me.’

“ What’s all this row woe ?”’ said a tall, red-bearded man
who had just come in; “ no one takes their babies out of this
’ere ’ouse before they pays. Come now, come now, who are
yer getting at? If yer thinks yer can come here insulting of
my wife, yer mistaken ; yer’ve come to the wrong shop.”

“I’ve paid all I owe,” said Esther. ‘‘ You’re no better
than murderers, but yer shan’t have my poor babe to murder
for a five-pound note.”

“Take back them words, or else I’ll do for yer ; take them
back,” he said, raising his fist.

“Help, help, murder !”
brute could seize her she slipped past, but before she could
scream again he laid hand on her at the door. Esther thought

Esther screamed. Before the

her last moment had come.

“ Let ’er go, let ’er go!” cried Mrs. Spires, clinging to her
husband’s arm. ‘‘ We don’t want the perlice in ’ere.”

“‘ Perlice ! What do I care about the perlice? Let ’er
pay what she owes.” .

“Never mind, Tom; it is only a trifle. Let her go.
Now then, take yer hook,” she said, turning to Esther ;
“* we don’t want nothing to do with such as you.”

«

154

With a growl the man loosed his hold, and feeling herself
free Esther rushed into the area and up the wooden steps.
Some men drinking in a public-house frightened her and she
ran on again, and to avoid the cabmen and the loafers in the
next street she hastily crossed to the other side. Her heart
beat violently, her thoughts were in disorder, and\she walked
on and on, stopping to ask the way, and then remembered
there was no whither she might go unless the workhouse ; no
matter, any whither. All sorts of thoughts came upon her
unsought till she came to the river, and saw vast water rolling.
Was she to die, she and her child? Why she more than the
next one? Why not go to the workhouse for the night ?
She didn’t mind for herself, only she did not wish her boy to
go there. But if God willed it... .” .

She drew her shawl about her baby and tried once more to
persuade herself into accepting the shelter of the workhouse.
It seemed strange even to her that a pale, glassy moon
should float high up in the sky, and that she should suffer ;
and then she looked at the lights that fell into the river from
_ the Surrey shore, and wondered what had she done to deserve
the workhouse ? and of all, what had the poor, innocent child
done to deserve it? If she once entered the workhouse she
would remain there. She and her child paupers for ever.
“‘ But what can I do ?” she asked herself crazily, and sat down
on one of the seats.

A young man coming home from an evening party looked
at her as he passed, and she asked herself if she should run
after him and tell him her story. Why should he not assist
her? He could so easily spare it. Would he? But before
she could decide to appeal to him he had called a passing
hansom and was soon far away. Then looking at the win-
dows of the great hotels, she thought of the folk there who
could so easily save her from the workhouse if they knew
There must be many a kind heart behind those windows who
would help her if she could only make known her trouble.
But that was the hardship. She could not make known her

155
trouble ; she could not tell the misery. She couldn’t under-
stand it herself; why it had all come about she didn’t know,
for, after all Her thoughts melted away and when she
returned to herself she was thinking that she would be mis-

taken for a common beggar. Nowhere would she find any-
one to listen to her, and in the delirium of her misery she
asked herself would it not have been better, perhaps, if she
had left him with Mrs. Spires. What indeed had the poor
little fellow to live for? A young man in evening dress
came towards her, looking so happy and easy in life, walking
with long, swinging strides. He stopped and asked her if she
was out for a walk.

“No, sir ; I’m out because I’ve no place to go.”

“* How’s that ?”

She told him the story of the baby-farmer and he listened
kindly, and she thought the needful miracle was about to
happen. But he only complimented her on her pluck and got
up to go. Then she understood that he did not care to listen
to sad stories, and a vagrant came and sat down.

“ The ‘ copper,’ ’’ he said, “‘ will be moving us on presently.
It don’t much matter; it’s too cold to get to sleep, and I
think it will rain. My cough is that bad.”

She might beg a night’s lodging of Mrs. Jones. But it
was so far away that she didn’t think she could walk so far.
Mrs. Jones might have left, then what would she do? The
workhouse up there was much the same as the workhouse
down here. Mrs. Jones couldn’t keep her for nothing, and
there was no use trying for another situation as wet-nurse ;
the hospital would not recommend her again. So there was
nothing for it but the workhouse. Her thoughts melted
away, and she had been so near to sleep that it was almost
a surprise to her to find herself on the Embankment. Her
father, brothers, and sisters were on their way to Australia.
But there was no use thinking of them, she and her baby were
on their way to the workhouse, going to become paupers....
The vagrant had fallen asleep. He knew all about the work-

156
house—should she ask him what it was like? He, too, was
friendless. If he had a friend he would not be sleeping on the
Embankment. Should she ask him? Poor chap, he was
asleep. People were happy when they were asleep.

A full moon floated high up in the sky, and the city was
no more than a faint shadow on the glassy stillness of the
night ; and she longed to float away with the moon out of
sight of this world. Her baby grew heavy in her arms, and
the vagrant, a bundle of rags thrown forward in a heap,
slept at the other end of the bench. But she could not sleep,
and the moon whirled on her miserable way. At last the
glassy stillness was broken by the measured tramp of the
policeman going his rounds, and in reply to her inquiry he
directed her to Lambeth Workhouse. As she walked away'she
heard him rousing the vagrant and bidding him move onward.

CHAPTER XX

TxosE who came to the workhouse for servants never offered
* more than fourteen pounds a year, and these wages would not
pay for her baby’s keep out_at nurse. Her friend the matron
did all she could, but it was always fourteen pounds, till at last
an offer of sixteen pounds a year came from a tradesman in
Chelsea ; and the matron introduced Esther to Mrs. Lewis, a
lonely widowed woman, who for five shillings a week would
undertake to look after the child.

What luck !

The shop was placed at a street corner, and twelve feet
of fronting on the King’s Road, and more than half that
amount on the side street, exposed to every view wallpapers
and stained-glass designs. The dwelling-house was over the
shop; and the Bingleys were Dissenters who exacted the
uttermost farthing from their customers and their workpeople.
Mrs. Bingley spoke in a sour, resolute voice, when she came
down in a wrapper to superintend the cooking, but on Sundays

157

she wore a black satin, fastened with a cameo brooch, and then
her manners were lofty. When her husband called “‘ Mother,”
she answered testily, “‘ Don’t keep on mothering me,” over-
looking Mr. Bingley’s ill-fitting frock-coat. On week days
he wore a short jacket, and every day a ring of discoloured
hair, neither brown nor red, but the neutral tint that hair
which does not turn grey acquires, under his chin. When he
spoke he opened his mouth wide, and seemed quite un-
ashamed of the empty spaces and the three or four yellow
fangs that remained.

John, the elder of the two brothers, a silent youth, whose
one passion seemed to be eavesdropping, hung round doors
in the hopes of overhearing his sister’s conversation, and if he
heard Esther and the little girl who helped Esther in her
work talking in the kitchen, he would steal cautiously halfway
down the stairs. Esther often thought that his young woman
must be sadly in want of a sweetheart to take on with one such
ashe. ‘ Come along, Amy,” he would cry, passing out before
her ; never thinking even at the end of a long walk to offer
her his arm ; and they came strolling home just like boy and
girl.

Hubert, John’s younger brother, was quite different, having
escaped the family temperament, as he had escaped the
family upper lip, and Esther liked to hear him call back to his
mother, “ All right, mother, I’ve got the key ; no one need
wait up forme. I'll make the door fast.”

“Oh, Hubert, don’t be later than eleven. You're not
going out dancing again, are you? Your father will have the
electric bell put on the door, so that he may know when you
come in.”

The four girls were all ruddy-complexioned and the eldest,
the plainest, kept her father’s books, and made the pastry.
The second and third did not look upon themselves as un-
marriageable : but the youngest was subject to hysterics, fits of
some kind.

The house the Bingleys lived in reproduced the taste they

158

had imposed upon the neighbourhood—a staircase covered
with white drugget, with white-enamelled walls kept scrupu-
lously clean, a drawing-room furnished with substantial
tables, cabinets and chairs, and antimacassars, long and wide,
china ornaments and glass vases. The drawing-room was
used only on Sundays. The family retired thither and hymns
were played by one of the young ladies, the entire family
joining in the chorus.

And it was into this house that Esther entered as general
servant, with wages fixed at sixteen pounds a year; and for
seventeen long hours every day, for two hundred and thirty
hours every fortnight, she washed, she scrubbed, she cooked,
she ran errands, with never a moment that she might call her
own. She was allowed every second Sunday out for four,
perhaps for four and a half hours; the time fixed was from
three to nine, but she was expected to be back in time to get
the supper ready, and if it were many minutes later than nine
there were complaints. On entering this service she had no
money and few clothes. Her quarter’s wages would not be
due for another fortnight, and, as they did not coincide with her
. Sunday out, she would not see her baby for another three
weeks, and a great longing was in her heart to clasp him in her
arms again, to feel his soft cheek against hers, to take his
warm, chubby legs and fat feet in her hands. The four
lovely hours of liberty would slip by too quickly. But to get
them she must pawn her dress—the only decent dress she
had left. No matter, she must see the child. She would
be able to get the dress out of pawn when she was paid her
wages. Then she would have to buy herself a pair of boots ;
and she owed Mrs. Lewis a lot of money. For five shillings
a week came to thirteen pounds a year, which left her three
a year for boots and clothes, journeys back and forward, and
everything the baby might want. It was not to be done—
she never would be able to pull through. As for the dress,
on second thoughts she didn’t dare to pawn it, for if she did
she’d never be able to get it out again. At that moment

*.

159
something bright lying on the floor, under the basin-stand,
caught her eye. It was a half-crown, and as the temptation
came into her heart to steal, she raised her eyes and looked
round the room.

She was in John’s room—in the sneak’s room. No one
was about. She would have cut off one of her fingers for
the coin. That half-crown meant pleasure and a happiness
so tender and seductive that she closed her eyes for a moment.
The half-crown she held between forefinger and_ thumb
presented a ready solution of the besetting hardship of her
wages. She threw out the insidious temptation, but it came
quickly upon her again. If she didn’t take the half-crown she
wouldn’t be able to go to Peckham on Sunday. She could
replace the money where she found it when she was paid her
wages. No one knew it was there; it had evidently rolled
there, and, having tumbled between the carpet and the wall,
had not been discovered. It had probably lain there for
months, perhaps it was utterly forgotten. Besides, she need
not take it now. It would be quite safe if she put it back in
its place ; on Sunday afternoon she would take it, and if she
changed it at once It was not marked. She examined it
all over. No, it was not marked. Then the desire paused,

and she wondered how she, an honest girl, who had never
harboured a dishonest thought in her life before, could desire
to steal, and a loathly shame fell upon her.

It was a case of flying from temptation, and she left the
room so hurriedly that John, who was spying in the passage,
had not time either to slip downstairs or to hide in his
brother’s room.

“ Oh, I beg pardon, sir, but I found this half-crown in your
room.”

“‘ Well, there’s nothing wonderful in that. What are you
so agitated about? I suppose you intended to return it to
me ?”

“ Intended to return it! Of course.”

An expression of hate and contempt leaped into her

160

handsome grey eyes, and, like a dog’s, the red lip turned
down, for she suddenly understood that this pasty-faced,
despicable chap had placed the coin where it might have
rolled accidentally. He had complained that morning that
she did not keep his room sufficiently clean! It was a
carefully laid plan, he was watching her all the while, and no
doubt thought that it was his own indiscretion that had pre-
vented her from falling into the trap. She dropped the half-
crown at his feet without a word; and all the time she re-
mained in her present situation she persistently refused to
speak to him ; she brought him what he asked for, but never
answered him, even with a Yes or No.

It was during the few minutes’ rest after dinner that the
burden of the day pressed heaviest upon her; then a painful
weariness grew into her limbs, and it seemed impossible to
summon strength and will to beat carpets or sweep down the
stairs. But if she were not moving about before the clock
struck, Mrs. Bingley came down to the kitchen.

“* Now, Esther, is there nothing for you to do ?”

And again, about eight o’clock, she felt too tired to bear
. the weight of her own flesh. She had been through fourteen
hours of toil, with no breaks but hasty meals, and it seemed to
her that she would never be able to summon enough courage
to get through the last three hours. It was this last climb
that taxed all her strength and all her will. Even the rest that
awaited her at eleven o’clock was blighted by the knowledge
of the day that was coming ; and she was often too tired to
rest, and rolled over and over in her garret bed, her whole
body aching, all that was human crushed out of her ; even her
- baby was growing indifferent to her. Ah, if he was to die!
She didn’t desire her boy’s death, but she couldn’t forget what
the baby-farmer had told her, that the burden wouldn’t
become lighter, but heavier and heavier. Was there no hope?
She buried her face in her pillow.

One morning she was startled out of her sleep by a loud
knocking at the door. It was Mrs. Bingley, who had come

161
to ask her if she knew what time it was It was nearly seven
o'clock. But Mrs. Bingley could not blame her much, having
herself forgotten to put on the electric bell, and Esther hurried
through her dressing. But in hurrying she trod on her dress
tearing it right across, a most unfortunate thing to happen,
and just when her mistress was calling her. There was
nothing for it but to run down and tell her what had happened

“ Haven't you got another dress that you can put on ?”

* No, ma’am.”

“ Really, I can’t have you going to the door in that thing.
You don’t do credit to my house ; you must get yourself a new
dress at once.”

Esther muttered that she had no money to buy one.

“ Then I don’t know what you do with your money.”

“ What I do with my wages is my affair ; I’ve plenty of use
for my money.”

“TI cannot allow any servant of mine to speak to me like
that.”

Esther did not answer, and Mrs. Bingley continued :

“ Tt is my duty to know what you do with your money, and
to see that you do not spend it in any wrong way. I am
responsible for your moral welfare.”

“ Then, ma’am, I think I had better leave you.”

“ Leave me, because I don’t wish you to spend your money
wrongfully, because I know the temptations that a young
girl's life is beset with ?”

“There ain’t much chance of temptation for them who
work seventeen hours a day.”

“ Esther, you seem to forget-——”

“No, ma’am; but there’s no use talking about a 1
do with my money—there are other reasons ; the place is too
hard aone. I’ve felt it so for some time, ma’am. My ’ealth
ain’t equal to it.”

Once she had spoken, Esther showed no disposition to
retract, and she resisted all Mrs. Bingley’s solicitations to
remain with her, knowing well the risk she was running in

162

leaving her situation, but compelled like the hunted animal to
leave the cover and seek safety in the open country. Her
whole body cried out for rest, she must have rest ; that was the
thing that must be. Mrs. Lewis would keep her and her baby
for twelve shillings a week; the present was the Christmas
quarter, and she was richer by five-and-twenty shillings than
she had been before. Mrs. Bingley had given her ten
shillings, Mr. Hubert five, and the other ten had been con-
tributed by the four young ladies. Out of this money she
hoped to be able to buy a dress and a pair of boots, as well as a
fortnight’s rest with Mrs. Lewis, and her plans had been
settled some three weeks before her month’s warning would
expire.

Henceforth the days of her servitude drew out, seeming
more than ever exhausting, and the longing in her heart to be
free, at times rose to her head, and her brain turned as if in
delirium, for every time she sat down she remembered she was
so many hours nearer to rest—a fortnight’s rest—she could
not afford more ; but in her present slavery that fortnight
seemed at once as a paradise and an eternity. Her fear was
. that her health might break down, and that she would be laid
up during the time she intended for rest. Her baby was lost
sight of in her desire of rest, for even a mother demands
something in return for her love, and in the last year Jackie
had taken much and given nothing. But when she opened
Mrs. Lewis’s door he came running to her, calling her Mum-
mie; and the immediate preference he showed for her,
climbing on her knees instead of on Mrs. Lewis’s, was a fresh
sowing of love in the mother’s heart.

They were in the midst of those few days of sunny weather
which come in January, deluding us so with their brightness
and warmth that we look round for roses and are astonished to
see the earth bare of flowers. And these bright afternoons
Esther spent entirely with Jackie. At the top of the hill their
way led through a narrow passage between a brick wall and a
high paling. She had always to carry him through this

163

passage, for the ground there was sloppy and dirty, and the
child wanted to stop to watch the pigs through the chinks in
the boards. But when they came to the smooth, wide, high
roads overlooking the valley, she put him down, and he would
run on ahead, crying, “ Tum for a walk, mummie, tum along,”
and his little feet went so quickly beneath his frock that it
seemed as if he were on wheels. She followed, often forced to
break into a run, tremulous lest he should fall, and together
they descended the hill into the ornamental park, and spent
happy hours amid geometrically designed flower-beds and
curving walks. She ventured with him as far as the old
Dulwich village, and they strolled through the long street ;
and, when Jackie called to his mother to carry him, she
rejoiced in the labour of his weight ; and when he grew too
heavy, she rested on the farm-gate, and looked into the low-
lying, shiftless fields, intersected with broken hedges. And
when the chill of night awoke her from dreams already for-
gotten she clasped Jackie to her bosom and turned towards
home, very soon to lose herself again in another tide of
happiness.

The evenings, too, were charming. When the candles
were lighted, and tea was on the table, Esther sat with the
dozing child on her knee, looking into the flickering fire, her
mind a reverie, occasionally broken by the homely talk of her
companion ; and when the child was laid in his cot she took up
her sewing—she was making herself a new dress ; or else the
great kettle was steaming on the hob, and the women stood
over the washing-tubs. On the following evening they
worked on either side of the ironing-table, the candle burning
brightly and their vague woman’s chatter sounding pleasant in
the hush of the cottage. A little after nine they were in bed,
and so the days went by softly, like happy, trivial dreams, and
it was not till the end of the third week that Mrs. Lewis would
hear of Esther looking out for another place. And then
Esther was surprised at her good fortune. A friend of Mrs.
Lewis’s knew a servant who was leaving her situation in the

164
West End of London. Esther got the address, and went
next day after the place. She was fortunate enough to
obtain it, and her mistress seemed well satisfied with her.
But one day in the beginning of her second year of service she
was told that her mistress wished to speak to her in the dining-
room. ° \

‘I fancy,” said the cook, “‘ that it is about that baby of
yours ; they’re very strict here.”

Mrs. Trubner was sitting on a low wicker chair by the fire.
She was a large woman with eagle features. Her eyesight
had been failing for some years, and her maid was reading to
her, The maid closed the book and left the room.

“It has come to my knowledge, Waters, that vou have a
child. You’re not a married woman, I believe ?”

“I’ve been unfortunate; I’ve a child, but that don’t
make no difference so long as I gives satisfaction in my work.
I don’t think that the cook has complained, ma’am ”

““ No, the cook hasn’t complained, but had I known this I
don’t think I should have engaged you. In the character
which you showed me, Mrs. Barfield said that she believed you

‘to be a thoroughly religious girl at heart.”

“And I hope I am that, ma’am. I am truly sorry for my
fault. I’ve suffered a great deal.”

“So you all say ; but supposing it were to happen again,
and in my house? Supposin ai

“Then don’t you think, ma’am, there is repentance and
forgiveness? Our Lord sai -

“You ought to have told me; and as for Mrs. Barfield,
her conduct is most reprehensible.”

“Then, ma’am, would you prevent every poor girl who has
had a misfortune from earning her bread? If they was all like
you there would be more girls who’d do away with themselves
and their babies. You don’t know how hard pressed we are.
The baby-farmer says, ‘ Give me five pounds and I'll find a.
good woman who wants a little one, and you shall hear no
more about it.’ Them very words were said to me. I took

165
him away and hoped to be able to rear him, but if I’m to lose
my situations——”
“T should be sorry to prevent anyone from earning their
bread——”

“You’re a mother yourself, ma’am, and you know what it

29

is.
“ Really, it’s quite different. . . . I don’t know what you
mean, Waters.”

“I mean that if I am to lose my situations on account of
my baby, I don’t know what will become of me. If I give
satisfaction 5

At that moment Mr. Trubner arrived, his glasses perched
on his high aquiline nose, his mother’s feature as it was his :
a large, stout man slightly out of breath.

“ Oh, oh, I didn’t know, mother,” he blurted out, and was
about to withdraw when Mrs. Trubner said :

“This is the new servant whom that lady in Sussex
recommended.”

Esther saw a look of instinctive repulsion come over his
face.

“* T'll leave you to settle with her, mother.”

“ T must speak to you, Harold—I must.”

“T really can’t ; I know nothing of this matter.”

He tried to leave the room, and when his mother stopped
him he said testily, ‘‘ Well, what is it? I am very busy just
now, and. ” Mrs. Trubner told Esther to wait in the

passage.

“Well,” said Mr. Trubner, “ have you discharged her ?
I leave all these things to you.”

“ She has told me her story, and truthfully I think, saying
that if she is kept from earning her bread she doesn’t know
what would become of her. Her position is a very hard one.”

“IT know that. But we can’t have loose women about the
place. They all can tell a fine story ; the world is full of
imposters.”

“ T don’t think the girl is an imposter.”

166

“Very likely not, but everyone has a right to protect
themselves.”

“* Don’t speak so loud, Harold,” said Mrs. Trubner lowering
her voice. ‘‘ Remember her child is dependent upon her ; if
we send her away we don’t know what may happen. I'll pay
her a month’s wages if you like, but you must, take the
responsibility.”

“I won’t take any responsibility in the matter. If she
had been here two years—she has only been here a year, not
so much more—and had proved a satisfactory servant, I
don’t say that we'd be justified in sending her away. But
there are plenty of good girls who want a situation as much as
she. I don’t see why we should harbour loose women when
there are so many deserving cases.”

“ Then you want me to send her away ?”

“I don’t want to interfere; you ought to know how to
act. Supposing the same thing were to occur again? My
cousins, young men, coming to the house——”

“‘ But she won’t see them.”

“Do as you like; it is your business, not mine. It
doesn’t matter to me, so long as I’m not interfered with ;
keep her if you like. You ought to have looked into her
character more closely before you engaged her. I think
that the lady who recommended her ought to be written to
very sharply.”

They had forgotten to close the door, and Esther stood in
the passage burning and choking with shame.

“Tt is a strange thing that religion should make some
people so unfeeling,” she thought as she left Onslow Square.

It was thus she learnt her lesson that she must keep her
child secret, and in her next situation she shunned intimacy
with her fellow-servants, thereby exposing herself to their
sneers. She feared the remark that she always went out,
but once she was out of the house her daily life fell behind her,
and she arrived breathless with expectation at a cottage
where a little boy stood by a stout middle-aged woman,

167

turning over the pages of the illustrated papers that his mother
had brought him. She had no money to buy him toys, and
dropping the Illustrated London News, he cried, ‘‘ Here is
Mummie,” running to her with outstretched arms while Mrs.
Lewis continued her sewing. And for an hour or more
Esther talked about her fellow-servants, about the people she
lived with, the conversation interrupted by the child calling
his mother’s attention to the pictures, or by the trustful
intrusion of his little hand into hers.

Her clothes were her great hardship, and she often thought
that she would rather go back to the slavery of the house in
Chelsea than bear the humiliation of going out any longer on
Sunday, in the old things that the servants had seen her in for
eight or nine months or more. She was made to feel that she
was the lowest of the low—the servant of servants. She had
to accept everybody’s sneer and everybody’s bad language,
and oftentimes gross familiarity, in order to avoid arguments
and disputes which might endanger her situation. She had to
shut her eyes to the thefts of cooks ; she had to fetch them
drink, and to do their work when they were unable to do it
themselves. But there was no help for it. She could not
pick and choose where she would live, and any wages above
sixteen pounds a year she must always accept, and put up
with whatever inconvenience she might meet.

Hers is a heroic adventure if one considers it—a mother’s
fight for the life of her child against all the forces that civilisa-
tion arrays against the lowly and the illegitimate. Sheisina
situation to-day, but on what security does she hold it? She
is strangely dependent on her own health, and still more upon
the fortunes and the personal caprice of her employers ; and
she realised the perils of her life when an outcast mother at the
corner of the street, stretching out of her rags a brown hand
and arm, asked alms for the sake of the little children. For
three months out of a situation and she, too, would be on the
street as a flower-seller, match-seller, or.

It did not seem, however, that any of these fears were to

M

168

be realised. Her luck had mended. For nearly two years
she had been living with some rich people in the West End ;
she liked her mistress and was on good terms with her fellow-
servants, and had it not been for an accident she could have
kept this situation. The young gentlemen had come home
for their summer holidays, and one day as she stepped aside
to let Master Harry pass her on the stairs, he did not go by,
but stood looking at her with a strange smile on his face.

“ Look here, Esther, I’m awfully fond of you. You are the
prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Come out for a walk with me
next Sunday.”

“ Master Harry, I’m surprised at you ; will you let me go by
at once ?”

There was no one near, the house was silent, and the-
boy stood on the step above her. He tried to throw his arm
round her waist, but she shook him off and went up to her
room calm with indignation. A few days afterwards she
suddenly became aware that he was following her in the street.
She turned sharply upon him.

“ Master Harry, I know that this is only a little foolishness
’ on your part, but if you don’t leave off I shall lose my situation,
and I’m sure you don’t want to do me an injury.”

Master Harry seemed sorry, and he promised not to
follow her in the street again. And never thinking that
it was he who had written the letter she received a few days
after, she asked Annie, the upper housemaid, to read it. It
contained reference to meetings and unalterable affection, and
it concluded with a promise to marry her if she lost her
situation through his fault. Esther listened like one stunned.
A schoolboy’s folly, the first silly sentimentality of a boy, a
thing lighter than the yaa leaf that falls, had brought
disaster upon her.

If Annie had not seen the letter she might have been able
to get the boy to listen to reason; but Annie had seen the
letter, and Annie could not be trusted. The story would be
sure to come out, and then she would lose her character as

169

well as her situation. It was a great pity, for her mistress had
promised to have her taught cooking at South Kensington,
and a cook’s wages would secure her and her child against all
usual run of accidents. She would never get such a chance
again, and would remain a kitchenmaid to the end of her
days. But there was no help for it, and acting on the impulse
of the moment she went straight to the drawing-room. Her
mistress was alone, and Esther handed her the letter. “I
thought you had better see this at once, ma’am. I did not
want you to think it was my fault. Of course the young
gentleman means no harm.”

““ Has anyone seen this letter ?”

“TI showed it to Annie. I’m no scholar myself, and the
writing was hard.”

“You have no reason for supposing—— How often did
Master Harry speak to you in this way ?”

“ Only twice, ma’am.”

“ Of course it is only a little foolishness. I needn’t say that
he doesn’t mean what he says.”

“‘T told him, ma’am, that if he continued I should lose my
situation.”

“T’m sorry to part with you, Esther, but I really think
that the best way will be for you to leave. I am much
obliged to you for showing me this letter. Master Harry,
you see, says that he is going away to the country for a
week. He left this morning. So I really think that a
month’s wages will settle matters nicely. You are an
excellent servant, and I shall be glad to recommend you.”

Then Esther heard her mistress mutter something about
the danger of good-looking servants. She was paid a month’s
wages, and left that afternoon.

CHAPTER XXI

Ir was the beginning of August, and London yawned in every
street ; the dust blew unslaked, and a little cloud curled and

170

disappeared over the crest of the hill at Hyde Park Corner ;
the streets and St. George’s Place looked out with blind, white
eyes ; and in the deserted Park the trees tossed their foliage
restlessly, as if they wearied and missed the fashion of their
season. And all through Park Lane and Mayfair, caretakers
and gaunt cats were the traces that the caste on which Esther
depended had left of its departed presence. She was coming
from the Alexandra Hotel, where she had heard a kitchen-
maid was wanted. Another disappointment! Good situa-
tions were seldom found in the summer months, and it would
be bad policy to take a bad one, even if it were only for a while.
Besides, she had saved a little money, and, feeling that
she required a rest, she took Mrs. Lewis’s advice to wait.
But as luck would have it Jackie fell ill before she had been
at Dulwich a week; his illness made a big hole in her
savings, and it became plain that she’d have to go to work at
once.

She was going north, to a registry office near Oxford Street,
which Mrs. Lewis had recommended. Holborn Row was
difficult to find, and she had to ask the way very often, but
she suddenly knew that she was in the right street by the
number of servant-girls going and coming from the office, and
in company with five others she ascended a gloomy little
staircase and passed into an odour of poverty.

The benches were occupied by fifteen or twenty poorly
dressed women, and a little old woman, very white and pale,
stood near the window recounting her misfortunes to no one
in particular.

“T lived with her more than thirty years ; I brought up all
- the children. I entered her service as nurse, and when the
children grew up I was given the management of everything
For the last fifteen years my mistress was a confirmed invalid
She entrusted everything to me. Oftentimes she took my
hand and said, ‘ You are a good creature, Holmes, you mustn’t
think of leaving me ; how should I get on without you ?’ But
when she died they had to part with me ; they said they were

171
very sorry, and wouldn’t have thought of doing so, only they
were afraid I was getting too old for the work. I daresay I
was wrong to stop so long in one situation. I shouldn’t have
done so, but she always used to say, ‘ You mustn’t leave us ;
we never shall be able to get on without you.’ ”

At that moment the secretary, an alert young woman with a
decisive voice, came through the folding doors.

“T will not have all this talking,” she said. Her quick
eyes fell on the little old woman, and she came forward a
few steps. ‘‘ What, you here again, Miss Holmes? I told
you that when I hear of anything that will suit you I'll write.”

“ So you said, miss, but my little savings are running short.
I’m being pressed for my rent.”

“ T can’t help that ; when I hear of anything I'll write. But
I can’t have you coming here every third day wasting my
time ; now run along.” And having made casual remarks
about the absurdity of people of that age coming after
situations, she called to her desk three or four women, of
whom Esther was one, and—after examining them critically,
she seemed especially satisfied with Esther’s appearance.

“Tt will be difficult,” she said, ‘ to find you the situation
you want before people begin to return to town. Now if
you were only an inch or two taller I could get you a dozen
places as housemaid ; tall servants are all the fashion, and you
are the right age—about five-and-twenty.”

Esther left a dozen stamps with her, and soon after she
began to receive letters containing the addresses of ladies
who required servants. They were of all sorts, and Esther
set out on long journeys from Brixton to Notting Hill to visit
poor people who could hardly afford a maid-of-all-work
Sometimes she was asked to call at a house in Bayswater, and
thence she had to go to High Street, Kensington, or Earl’s
Court ; a third address might be in Chelsea. She could only
guess which was the best chance, and while she was hesitating
the situation might be given away. Very often the ladies
were out, and she was asked to call later in the day. These

172

casual hours she spent in the parks, mending Jackie’s socks or
hemming pocket-handkerchiefs, so she was frequently delayed
till evening ; and in the mildness of the summer twilight,
with some fresh disappointment lying heavy on her heart,
she made her way from the Marble Arch round the barren
Serpentine into Piccadilly, with its stream of lights beginning
in the sunset. iy

And standing at the kerb of Piccadilly Circus, waiting for a
bus to take her to Ludgate Hill Station, the girl grew conscious
of the moving multitude that filled the streets. The great
restaurants rose up calm and violet in the evening sky, the
Café Monico, with its air of French newspapers and Italian
wines ; and before the grey facade of the fashionable Criterion
hansoms stopped and dinner parties walked across the pave-
ment. The fine weather brought the wenches up earlier than
usual from the suburbs, and they came up the long road from
Fulham, with white dresses floating from their hips, and
feather boas waving a few inches from the pavement. But
through this elegant disguise Esther could pick out the
servant-girls. Their stories were her story. Each and all
chad been deserted ; and perhaps each had a child to support.
But they hadn’t been as lucky as she had been in finding
situations, that was all. :

But her luck seemed to have left her for good. They
were now in the middle of September and she was not able to
find the situation she wanted, and it became more and more
distressing to her to refuse sixteen pounds a year, but nothing
less than eighteen pounds was of any use to her. With
eighteen pounds and a kind mistress who would give her an
. old dress occasionally she could do very well. But if she
didn’t find these two pounds she did not know what she should
do. She might drag on for a time on sixteen pounds, but such
wages would drive her in the end into the workhouse. Jackie
cost her more than he used to. A sudden imagination let her
see him /playing in the little street, waiting for her to come
home, and her love for him went to her head like madness, and

173
she wondered at herself; for it seemed almost unnatural to
love anything as she did this child.

And then, in a shiver of fear, determined to save her
bus fare, she made her way through Leicester Square,
hastening her steps when addressed by a passer-by, which
was hard to do, for she had been walking all day and had not
tasted food since the morning, and the weakness of the flesh
brought a sudden weakness of the spirit. She felt that she
could struggle no more, that the whole world was against her—
she felt that she must have food and drink and rest. All this
London tempted her ; the cup was at her lips, for a young man
in evening clothes was speaking to her. His voice was soft,
the look in his eyes seemed kindly.

Thinking of the circumstances ten minutes later, it seemed
to her that she had intended to answer him. But she was now
at Charing Cross. There was a lightness, an emptiness in her
head which she could not overcome, and the crowd appeared
to her like a blurred, noisy dream. And then the dizziness
left her, and she realised the temptation she had escaped.
Here, as in Piccadilly, she could pick out the servant-girls ;
but here their service was yesterday’s lodging-house—poor
and dissipated girls, dressed in vague clothes fixed with
hazardous pins. Two young women came out of an eating
house, hanging on each other’s arms, talking lazily. The
skirt on the outside was a soiled mauve, and the bodice that
went with it was a soiled chocolate. A broken yellow plume
hung out of a battered hat. The skirt on the inside was a dim
green, and little was left of the cotton-velvet jacket but the
cotton. A girl of sixteen walking sturdily, like a little man,
crossed the road, her left hand thrust deep into the pocket of
her red cashmere dress. She wore on her shoulders a strip of
beaded mantle; her hair was plaited and tied with a red
ribbon. Elderly women passed, their eyes liquid with
invitation ; and the huge bar-loafer, the man of fifty, the
hooked nose and the waxed moustache, stood at the door of a
restaurant, passing the women in review.

174

A true London of the water’s edge—a London of theatres,
music-halls, wine-shops, ‘ public-houses—the walls painted
various colours, nailed over with huge gold lettering ; the pale
air woven with delicate wire, a gossamer web underneath
which the crowd moved like lazy flies, one half watching the
perforated spire of St. Mary’s, and all the City spires behind it
now growing cold in the east ; the other half seeing the spire
of St. Martin’s above the chimney-pots aloft in a sky of cream
pink. Stalwart policemen urged along groups of slattern
boys and girls ; and after vulgar remonstrance these took the
hint and disappeared down strange passages. Suddenly
Esther came face to face with a woman whom she recognised
as Margaret Gale.

“ What, is it you, Margaret ?”

“Yes, it is me all right. What are you doing up here?
Got tired of service ? Come and have a drink, old gal.”

““ No, thank you ; I’m glad to have seen you, Margaret, but
I’ve a train to catch.”

“That won’t do,” said Margaret, catching her by the arm ;
‘ we must have a drink and a talk over old times.”

Esther felt that if she didn’t have something she would
faint before she reached Ludgate Hill, and Margaret led the
way through the public-house, opening all the varnished
doors, seeking a quiet corner. “ What’s the matter ?” she
said, startled at the pallor of Esther’s face.

“Only a little faintness ; I’ve not had anything to eat all
day.”

“ Quick, quick, four of brandy and some water,’ Margaret
cried to the barman, and a moment after she was holding the
glass to her friend’s lips. “‘ Not had anything to eat all day
dear? Then we'll have a bite and asup together. I feel a bit

«

peckish myself. Two sausages and two rolls and butter,”

she cried. Then the women had a long talk. Margaret told
Esther the story of her misfortune. The Barfields were all
gone broke. They had been very unlucky racing, and when
the servants got the sack Margaret had come up to London.

175
She had been in several situations, and finally, one of her
masters had got her into trouble, his wife had turned her out
neck and crop, and what was she to do? Esther told how
Master Harry had lost her her situation.

“ And you left like that ?. Well I never! The better one
behaves the worse one gets treated, and them that goes on
with service find themselves in the end without as much as will
buy them a Sunday dinner.”

Margaret insisted on accompanying Esther, and they
walked together as far as Wellington Street. “I can’t go
any farther,” and pointing to where London seemed to end
in a piece of desolate sky, she said, “‘ I live on the other side of
the water, in Stamford Street. You might come and see me.
If ever you get tired of service you'll get decent rooms there.”

Bad weather followed fine, and under a streaming umbrella
Esther went from one address to another, her damp skirts
clinging about her and her boots clogged with mud. She
looked upon the change as unfortunate, for in getting a
situation so much depended on personal appearance and
cheerfulness of manner ; and it is hard to seem a right and tidy
girl after two miles’ walk through the rain.

One lady told Esther that she liked tall servants, another
said she never engaged good-looking girls, and another place
that would have suited her was lost through answering that
she was chapel. The lady would have nothing in her house
but church. Then there were the disappointments occasioned
by the letters which she received from people who she thought
would have engaged her, saying they were sorry, but that they
had seen someone whom they liked better.

Another week passed; Esther had to pawn her clothes
to get money for her train fare to London and keep the
registry office supplied with stamps; and she lay awake
thinking that she and Jackie must go back to the work-
house. Mrs. Lewis had been very good to them, but Esther
owed her two weeks’ money. She had heard of charitable
institutions, but she was an ignorant girl and didn’t know how

176
to make the necessary inquiries. Money, money! oh, the
want of a little money—of a very little money! The thought
beat into her brain. For just enough to hold on till the
people came back to town.

One day Mrs. Lewis, who read the newspapers for her,
came to her with an advertisement which she said\seemed to
read like a very likely chance. Esther looked at the pence
which remained out of the last dress that she had pawned.

“I’m afraid,” she said, “ it will turn out like the others ;
I’m out of my luck.”

“Don’t say that,” said Mrs. Lewis. “‘ Keep your pecker
up ; I'll stick to you as long as I can.”

The women had a good cry in each other’s arms, and
then Mrs. Lewis advised Esther to take the situation, even
if it were no more than sixteen. ‘‘ A lot can be done by
constant saving, and if she gives yer ’er dresses and ten
shillings for a Christmas-box, I don’t see why you shouldn’t
pull through. And the child shan’t cost you more than five
shillings a week till you get a situation as plain cook, I'll see to
that. Here is the address—Miss Rice, Avondale Road, West

Kensington.”

CHAPTER XXII

AvonpaLE Roap was an obscure corner of the suburb—
obscure, for it had just sprung into existence. The scaffolding
that had built it now littered an adjoining field, where in a
few months it would rise about Horsley Gardens, whose red
gables and tiled upper walls will correspond with Avondale
Road. ‘“‘ Nothing much like eighteen pounds a year,” she
said, “in this neighbourhood. Hot joint to-day, cold the
next,” and raising her eyes she saw the tiny gable windows of
the cupboard-like rooms where the single servant kept in
these houses slept.

A few steps more brought her to 41, the corner house,

177

and the thin passage and the meagre staircase confirmed
Esther in the poor opinion she had formed from the aspect of
the street ; and she felt that the place was more suitable to
the gaunt woman with iron-grey hair whom she found waiting
in the passage. The woman looked apprehensively at Esther,
and when Esther said that she had come after the place a
painful change of expression passed over her face, and she
answered :

“You'll get it; I’m too old for anything but charing
How much are you going to ask ?”

“T can’t take less than sixteen.”

“Sixteen! I used to get that once ; I’d be glad enough to
get twelve now. You can’t think of sixteen once you've
turned forty, and I’ve lost my teeth, and they means a couple
of pound off.”

Then the door opened, and a woman’s voice called to the
gaunt woman to come in. She went in, and Esther breathed
a prayer that she might not be engaged. A minute inter-
vened, and the gaunt woman came out; there were tears in
her eyes, and she whispered to Esther as she passed, ‘“‘ No
good ; I told youso. I’m too old for anything but charing.”
The abruptness of the interview suggested a hard mistress,
and Esther was surprised to find herself in the presence of a
slim lady, about seven-and-thirty, whose small grey eyes
seemed to express a kind and gentle nature.

The room almost said that the occupant was a spinster and a
writer, and Esther remembered that she had noticed even
at the time Miss Rice’s writing ; it was such a beautiful clear
round hand, and it lay on the table, ready to be continued the
moment she should have settled with her.

“I saw your advertisement in the paper, miss ; I’ve come
after the situation.”

“You are used to service ?”

“Yes, miss, I’ve had several situations in gentlemen’s
families, and have excellent characters from them all.” Miss
Rice put up her glasses and her grey eyes smiled, and she

178
seemed pleased with the somewhat rugged but pleasant-
featured girl before her.

‘I live alone,” she said ; “‘ the place is an easy one and, if
the wages satisfy you, I think you will suit me very well.
My servant, who has been with me some years, is leaving me
to be married.” ‘

“What are the wages, miss ?”’

“ Fourteen pounds a year.”

“Tm afraid, miss, there would be no use my taking the
place; I’ve so many calls on my money that I could not
manage on fourteen pounds. I’m very sorry, for I feel sure I
should like to live with you, miss.”

“‘T think we should suit each other,’ Miss Rice said re-
flectively. “‘I should like to have you for my servant if I
could afford it. How much would you take ?”

“ Placed as I am, miss, I could not take less than sixteen.
I’ve been used to eighteen.”

“ Sixteen pounds is more than I can afford, but I'll think it
over. Give me your name and address.”

“Esther Waters, 13 Poplar Road, Dulwich.”

As Esther turned to go she became aware of the kindness of
the eyes that looked at her: Miss Rice said :

“ Tm afraid you’re in trouble. Sit down ; tell me about it.”

“No, miss, what’s the use ?” But Miss Rice looked at her
so kindly that Esther could not restrain herself. “‘ There’s
nothing for it,”’ she said, “‘ but to go back to the workhouse.”

“ But why should you go to the workhouse? I offer you
fourteen pounds a year and everything found.”

“You see, miss, I’ve a baby. We've been in the workhouse’
already ; I had to go there the night I left my situation to get
him away from Mrs. Spires. She wanted to kill him; she’d
have done it for five pounds—that’s the price. But, miss, my
story is not one that can be told to a lady such as you.”

“I think I’m old enough to listen to your story ; sit down,
and tell it to me.”

And all the while Miss Rice’s eyes were filled with

; 179
tenderness and pity.

“ A very sad story—just such a story as happens every day.
But you have been punished, you have indeed.”

“Yes, miss, I think I have; and after all these years
of striving it is hard to have to take him back to the work-
house. Not that I want to give out that I was badly treated
there, but it is the child I’m thinking of. He was then
a little baby and it didn’t matter ; we was only there a few
months. There’s no one that knows of it but me. But he’s a
growing boy now, he'll remember the workhouse, and it will
be always a disgrace.”

“* How old is he ?”

“He was six last May, Miss. It has been a hard job to
bring him up. I now pay six shillings a week for him, that’s
more than fourteen pounds a year, and you can’t do much
in the way of clothes on two pounds a year. And now
that he’s growing up he’s costing more than ever; but
Mrs. Lewis—that’s the woman what has brought him up—
is as fond of him as I am myself. She don’t want to make
nothing out of his keep, and that’s how I’ve managed up
to the present. But I see well enough that it can’t be done ;
his expense mounts up, and the wages stay the same. It
was my pride to bring him up on my earnings, and my hope
to see him an honest man earning good money. But it
wasn’t to be, miss, it wasn’t to be. We must be humble and.
go back to the workhouse.”

‘‘ I can see that it has been a hard fight.”

«‘ It has indeed, miss; no one will ever know how hard.
I shouldn’t mind if it wasn’t going to end by going back
to where it started. They'll take him from me; I shall
never see him while he is there. I wish I was dead, miss,
I can’t bear my trouble no longer.”

“You shan’t go back to the workhouse so long as I can
help you, Esther; I'll give you the wages you ask for.
It is more than I can afford. Eighteen pounds a year!
But your child shall not be taken from you. You shall

*-

180
not go to the workhouse. There aren’t many such good
women in the world as you, Esther.”

CHAPTER XXIII
x
Tury were not unlike—quiet, instinctive Englishwomen,
strong, warm natures, under an appearance of formality
and reserve, and it took some time before either was able to
put aside her natural reserve. But the instincts of the dog
soon began to develop in Esther, and she watched the house-
hold expenses, likewise her mistress’s health.

‘‘ Now, miss, I must ’ave you take your soup while it is ot.
You’d better put away your writing ; you’ve been at it all the
morning. You'll make yourself ill, and then I shall have the
nursing of you.”” If Miss Rice was going out in the evening
she would find herself stopped in the passage : ‘‘ Now, miss, I
really can’t see you go out like that ; you'll catch your death of
cold. You must put on your warm cloak.”

Miss Rice’s friends were principally middle-aged ladies.
Her sisters, large, stout women, came to see her, and there was
a fashionably dressed young man whom her mistress seemed to
like very much, Mr. Alden, who was often at the house ; Miss
Rice told Esther that he wrote novels ; they used to talk for
hours, and Esther bethought herself that Miss Rice was
giving her heart to one who did not care for her. But mayhap
it was only about books they were talking; if so, Esther
didn’t think she’d care, if she had a young man, to see him
come and go like ashadow. But she hadn’t a young man, and
did not want one. All she now wanted was to awake in the
morning and know that her child was safe. And for more
than a year she followed her plan of life, laughing the casual
suitor into silence, and rarely persuaded into a promise to
walk out with any of them.

One of these swains was a stationer’s foreman, and almost
every day Esther went to the stationer’s for the sermon-paper

181

on which her mistress wrote her novels, for blotting-paper, for
stamps, or to post letters. Fred Parsons was his name—a
meagre little man about thirty-five, whose high prominent
forehead rose above a small pointed face, a scanty growth of
blond beard and moustache failing to hide the receding chin
and the red-sealing-wax lips; his faded yellow hair was
beginning to grow thin on the crown; and his threadbare
frock-coat hung limp from his sloping shoulders. But his
voice was bell-like ; into it no trace of doubt ever seemed to
come, and his mind was neatly packed with a few religious and
political ideas. These were the man, and he had already
begun to wonder what were Esther’s religious beliefs. He
had been in business in the West End, but an unrestrained
desire to ask every customer if he were sure he believed in the
second coming of Christ had been the cause of his dismissal,
and so it was that he kept himself from questioning Esther.
But at the end of a certain week they were alone in the shop ;
Esther had come for a packet of note-paper. Fred was sorry
she had not come for sermon-paper ; if she had it would have
been easier to inquire her opinions regarding the second
coming. But the opportunity, such as it was, was not to be
resisted.

“* Your mistress seems to use a great deal of paper ; it was
only a day or two ago that I served you with four quires.”

“That was for her books; what she now wants is note-

paper.”

“So your mistress writes books !”

Sess

“ T hope they’re good books—books that are helpful.” He
paused to see that no one was within earshot. ‘‘ Books that

bring sinners back to the Lord.”

“TI don’t know what she writes; I only know she writes
books ; I think I’ve heard she writes novels.”

Fred did not approve of novels—Esther could see that—and
she was sorry ; for he seemed a nice, well-spoken young man,
and she would have liked to tell him that her mistress was not

.

182

one who would write anything that could do harm to anybody.
But her mistress was waiting for her paper, and she took leave
of him hastily. The next time they met was in the evening
She was going to see if she could get some fresh eggs for her
mistress’s breakfast before the shops closed, and coming
towards her, walking at a great pace, she saw one whom
she thought she recognised, a meagre little man with long
reddish hair curling under the brim of a large soft black hat.
He nodded, smiling pleasantly as he passed her.

“Lor’,” she thought, “I didn’t know him; it’s the
stationer’s foreman.’ And the very next evening they met
in the same street; she being out for a little walk, and he
hurrying to catch his train. And three days after they met at
the same time, and as nearly as possible at the same place.

“We're always meeting,” he said.

“ Yes, isn’t it strange P You come this way from business ?”’
she answered.

“Yes; about eight o’clock is my time.”

It was at the end of August ; the stars were catching fire
. slowly in the murky London sunset ; and, vaguely conscious
of a feeling of surprise at the pleasure they took in each
other’s company, they wandered round a little bleak square in
which a few shrubs had just been planted. “I’m sorry the
paper isn’t going to be put to better use,” Fred said, taking up
the conversation exactly at the point where it had broken off.

“You don’t know my mistress, or you wouldn’t say that.”

“ Perhaps you haven’t considered that novels are very often
stories about the loves of men for other men’s wives. Such
books can serve no good purpose.”

“T’m sure my mistress don’t write about such things.
How could she, poor dear innocent lamb? It is easy to see
you don’t know her.’ In the course of their argument it
transpired that Miss Rice went to neither church nor chapel.
Fred was much shocked. “I hope,” he said, “ you do not
follow your mistress’s example.” Esther admitted she had
for some time past neglected her religion, and Fred went so

183
far as to put it forward as her duty to leave her present situa-
tion and enter a truly religious family.

“ T owe her too much ever to think of leaving her. And it
has nothing to do with her if I haven’t thought as much about
the Lord as I ought to have. It’s the first place I’ve been in
where there was time for religion.”

This answer seemed to satisfy Fred.

““ Where did you used to go ?”

“My people—father and mother—belonged to the
Brethren.”

“ To the Close or the Open ?”

“‘ [don’t remember ; I was only a little child at the time.”

“Tm a Plymouth Brother.”

“ Well, that is strange.”

“ Do not forget that it is only through belief in our Lord, in
the sacrifice of the Cross, that we can be saved.”

“ Yes, I believe that.”

The avowal seemed to have brought them strangely near to
each other, and on the following Sunday Fred took Esther to
meeting, and introduced her as one who had strayed, but who
had never ceased to be one of them.

She had not been to meeting since she was a little child ;
and the bare room and bare dogma, in such immediate
sympathy with her own nature—were they not associated
with memories of home, of father and mother, of all that had
gone ?—touched her with a delight that went to the roots of
her nature. Fred was the preacher on this occasion, and he
spoke of the second coming of Christ, when the faithful would
be carried away in clouds of glory, of the rapine and carnage to
which the world would be delivered up before final absorption
in everlasting hell. A sense of awe and dread passed over the
listening faces, and a young girl who sat with closed eyes put
out her hand to assure herself that Esther was still there.
And as they walked home, Esther told Fred that she hadn’t
been happy for a long time, not so happy. He pressed her
hand, and thanked her with a look in which appeared all his

N

*

184

soul; she was his for ever and ever; nothing could wholly

disassociate them, for he had saved her. His exaltation

moved her to wonder. But her own innate faith had sup-

ported her during many a troublous year, and though she did

not share Fred’s exaltations she understood them. But Fred

would want her to come to meeting with him next Sunday,
and she was going to Dulwich. Sooner or later he would find
out that she had a child, then she would see him no more.

That child came between her and every chance of settling

herself. It were better to break with Fred. But what

excuse could she give? Everything went wrong with her.

He might ask her to marry him, and then she would have to

tell him.

Towards the end of the week she heard someone tap at the
window ; it was Fred. He asked her why he had not seen
her, and she answered that she hadn’t had the time.

“Can you come out this evening ?”

“ Yes, if you like.”

She put on her hat, and they went out, their feet taking the
pavement instinctively that led to the little square where they
had walked the first time they went out together.

“ [ve been thinking of you a good deal, Esther, in the last
few days. I want to ask you to marry me.”

Esther did not answer.

“Will you?” he said.

“Tcean’t ; I’m very sorry ; don’t ask me.”

“Why can’t you ?”

“ IfI told you I don’t think you’d want to marry me. But I
_ suppose I’d better tell you. I’m not the good woman you

think me. I’ve got achild. There, you have it now, and you
can take your hook when you like.”

_ It was her blunt, sullen nature that had spoken, she didn’t
care if he left her on the spot—now he knew all and could do as
he liked. At last he said :

“ But you’ve repented, Esther ?”
“TI should think I had, and been punished too, enough

185
for a dozen children.”
“ Ah, then it wasn’t lately ?”
“Lately! It’s nearly eight year ago.”
“ And all that time you’ve been a good woman ?”
“ Yes, I think I’ve been that.”
“ Then if——”
“T don’t want no ifs. If I am not good enough for you,

you can go elsewhere and get better; I’ve had enough of
reproaches.”

“T did not mean to reproach you; I know that a woman’s
path is more difficult to walk in than ours. It may not be a
woman's fault if she falls, but it is always a man’s. He can
always fly from temptation.”

“Yet there isn’t a man that can say he hasn’t gone
wrong.”

“No, not all, Esther.”

Esther looked him full in the face.

“ T understand what you mean, Esther, but I can honestly
say that I never have.”

Esther did not like him any better for his purity, and was
irritated by the clear tones of his icy voice.

“ But that is no reason why I should be ’ard on those who
have not been so fortunate. I didn’t mean to reproach you
just now, Esther ; I only meant to say that I wish you ‘ad told
me this before I took you to meeting.”

“ So you're ashamed of me, is that it? Well, you can keep
your shame to yourself.”

“No, not that, Esther. Zi

“Then you'd like to see me took down before the others, as
if I haven’t ’ad enough of that already.”

“No, Esther, listen to me. Those who transgress the
moral law may not kneel at the table for a time, until they
have repented ; but those who believe in the sacrifice of the
Cross are acquitted, and I believe you do that.”

LeRS.

“A sinner that reproach

I will speak about this

186

at our next meeting ; you will come with me ?”

“ Next Sunday I’m going to Dulwich to see the child.”

“Can’t you go after meeting ?”

“No, I can’t be out morning and afternoon both.”

“May I go with you ?”

“To Dulwich !” x

“‘ You won’t go until after meeting ; I can meet you at the
railway station.”

“ Tf you like.”

As they walked home Esther told Fred the story of her
betrayal and he was interested in the story, and sorry for her.

“ T love you, Esther, and it is easy to forgive those we love.”

“You're very good; I never thought to find a man so
good.” She looked up in his face ; her hand was on the gate,
and in that moment she felt that she almost loved him.

CHAPTER XXIV

An elderly person who looked after a bachelor’s establishment
two doors up, Mrs. Humphries, who often ran in about tea-
time, soon began to speak of Fred as a very nice young man
who would be likely to make a woman happy. But Esther
moved about the kitchen in her taciturn way, hardly answer-
ing. Suddenly she told Mrs. Humphries that she had been to
Dulwich with him, and that it was wonderful how he and
Jackie had taken to one another.

“You don’t say so! Well, it is nice to find them religious
folks less ’ard-’earted than they gets the name of.”

Mrs. Humphries was of the opinion that henceforth Esther
should give herself out as Jackie’s aunt. “‘ None believe them
stories, but they make you seem more respectable like, and I
am sure Mr. Parsons will think so too.’ Esther did not
answer, but she thought of what Mrs. Humphries had said, and
that it might be better if Jackie were to leave off calling her
mummie. Auntie! But no, she could not bear it. Fred

187
must take her as she was or not at all. Why shouldn’t he?
They seemed to understand each other, and he was earning
good money, thirty shillings a week ; she was now going on
for eight-and-twenty, and if she was ever going to be married
it was time to think about it.

“TI don’t know how that dear soul will get on without me,”
she said one October morning as they jogged out of London by
a slow train from St. Paul’s, for Fred was taking her into Kent
to see his people.

“ How do you expect me to get on without you ?”

Esther laughed.

“Trust you to manage somehow. There ain’t much fear of
a man not looking after his little self.”

“ But the old folk will want to know when. What shall I
tell them ? ”

“This time next year; that'll be soon enough. Perhaps
you'll get tired of me before then.”

“* Say next spring, Esther.”

The train stopped.

“ There’s father waiting for us in the spring cart. Father !
He don’t hear us. He’s gone a bit deaf of late years. Father!”

“ Ah, so here you are. Train late.”

“ This is Esther, father.”

“ And we be right glad to see you. Now if you'll jump into
the cart, we’ll be at the farm in ten minutes’ time.”

“The old pony is going as well as ever, father?” Fred
asked.

“ Much the same, but none of us be younger than we were,”
Esther heard the old man say, and the words stirred her to
remember her own age and that she was going to be intro-
duced to Fred’s sisters and to his brother. But these did not
concern her much: her thoughts were set on Mrs. Parsons,
Fred having spoken a great deal about his mother, telling her
that when she was told about Jackie she was of course very
sorry ; but that when she heard the whole of Esther’s story
she had said, “ We are all born into temptation, and if your

188

Esther has really repented and prayed to be forgiven, we
must not say nay toher.”’ All the same, Esther was not quite
easy in her mind, and half regretted she had consented to see
Fred’s people until he had made her his wife. But it was too
late to think of such things. Fred had just pointed to the
farmhouse, over yonder, and, scenting his stable, the old grey
pony ascended the hill at a trot. “ We had a fine show of
flowers all the summer, but there’s no more than a few
Michaelmas daisies left,” the old man said, and Esther
admired the Virginia creeper that covered one side of the
house with a crimson mantle, while Parsons answered Fred
that he would take the trap round to the stable, and this being
settled Fred led the way up the red-bricked pavement and
lifting the latch they passed through the kitchen, Fred intro-
ducing Esther to his two sisters, Mary and Lily, who were busy
cooking.

“* Mother is in the parlour,” said Mary ; “ she is waiting for
you.”

And by the window they found her sitting in a wide wooden
. armchair, a large woman about sixty, dressed in black, wearing
on either side of her long white face two corkscrew curls,
which gave her a somewhat ridiculous appearance. But
when she rose from her chair to greet her son she ceased to be
ridiculous or grotesque, for her face beamed, and she held out
her hands in a beautiful gesture of welcome.

“Oh, how do you do, dear Fred? I am that glad to see
you! How good of you to come all this way! Come and sit
ye down by me.”

“* Mother, this is Esther.”

“How do you do, Esther? It was good of you to come. I
am glad to see you. Let me get youachair. Take off your
things, dear ; come and sit by me.”

She insisted on relieving Esther of her hat and jacket, and,
having laid them on the sofa, she waddled across the room,
drawing over two chairs.

“Come and sit ye down; you'll tell me everything. I

189
can’t get about much now, but I like to have my children
round me. Take this chair, Esther.” Then turning to Fred,
“ Tell me, Fred; how you've been getting on. Are you still
living at ’ackney ?”

“Yes, mother; but when we’re married we’re going to
have a cottage at Mortlake. Esther will like it better than
’ackney. It is nearer the country.”

“Then you’ven’t forgotten the country. Mortlake is on
the river, I think. I ’ope you won’t find it too damp.”

“No, mother, there are some nice cottages there. I think
we shall find that Mortlake suits us. There are many friends
there ; more than fifty meet together every Sunday. And
there’s a lot of political work to be done there. I know that
you're against politics, but men can’t stand aside nowadays.
Times change, mother.”

“So long as we have God in our hearts, my dear boy, all that
we do is well. But you must want something after your
journey. Fred, dear, knock at that door. Your sister Clara’s
dressing there. Tell her to make haste.”

“ All right, mother,” cried a voice from behind the partition
which separated the rooms, and a moment after the door
opened and a young woman about thirty entered. She was
better-looking than the other sisters, and the fashion of her
skirt, and the worldly manner with which she kissed her
brother and gave her hand to Esther, marked her off at once
from the rest of her family. She was forewoman in a large
millinery establishment, but spent Saturday afternoon and
Sunday at the farm. To-day she had got away earlier, and,
with the view to impressing Esther, she explained how this
had come about.

Mrs. Parsons suggested a glass of currant wine, and Lily
came in with a tray and glasses. Clara said she was starving.
Mary said she would have to wait, and Lily whispered, “ In
about half an hour.”

After dinner the old man said that they must be getting on
with their work in the orchard, and Esther answered that she

190
would be glad to help, but as she was about to follow the
others Mrs. Parsons detained her.

“You don’t mind staying with me a few minutes, do you,
dear? I shan’t keep you long.” She drew over a chair for
Esther. ‘I shan’t perhaps see you again for some time. I
am getting an old woman, and the Lord may be‘pleased to
take me at any moment. But I wanted to tell you, dear, that
I put my trustin you. You'll make a good wife to Fred, I feel
sure, and he will make a good father to your child, and if God
blesses you with other children he'll treat your first no
different than the others. He’s told me so, and my Fred is a
man of his word. You were led into sin, but you’ve repented.
We was all born into temptation, and we must trust to the
Lord to lead us out lest we should dash our foot against a
stone.”

?

“‘ T was to blame ; I don’t say I wasn’t, bu

“We won’t say no more about that. We’re all sinners, the
best of us. You're going to be my son’s wife ; you’re there-
fore my daughter, and this house is your home whenever you
. please to come to see us. And I hope that that will be often.
I like to have my children about me. I can’t get about much
now, so they must come tome. It is very sad not to be able to
gotomeeting. I’ve not been to meeting since Christmas, but
I can see them going there from the kitchen window, and how
’appy they look coming back from prayer. It is easy to see
that they have been with God. The Salvationists come this
way sometimes. They stopped in the lane to sing. I could
not hear the words, but I could see by their faces that they
was with God. Now, I’ve told all that was on my mind. I
must not keep you; Fred is waiting for you.”

Esther kissed the old woman, and went into the orchard,
where she found Fred on a ladder shaking the branches. He
came down when he saw Esther, and Harry, his brother, took
his place. Esther and Fred filled one basket, and then,
yielding to a mutual inclination, they wandered about the
orchard, stopping on the little plank bridge, speaking hardly at

191

all, words seeming unnecessary ; each felt happiness to be a
mutual possession. Apart they would be blind and deaf, but
together they heard the water trickling through the weeds,
and the sound of apples falling in the dusk, and a breeze
shivered among the tops of the apple-trees and sered leaves
were blown from the branches. As the gatherers crossed the
plank bridge they put jokes on the lovers, who stood aside to
let them pass.

And when all and sundry entered the house they saw the old
farmer, who had slipped in before them, sitting by his wife
holding her hand, patting it in a curious old-time way, and the
attitude of the old couple was so pregnant with significance
that it fixed itself on Esther’s mind. It seemed to her that
she had never seen anything so beautiful. ‘‘ So they have
lived for forty years,” she said to herself, ‘ faithful to each
other,” and she wondered if Fred forty years hence would be
sitting by her side holding her hand.

“ Of what are you thinking, Esther?” Fred asked. And
not knowing what answer to make him she said: ‘‘ It must
be near time to be getting home.”

“ Are you tired of us already ?” Mrs. Parsons asked. Fred
interposed, and the old man lighted a lantern, went round to
the stable to get a trap out, and drove them through the dark
country. A peasant came like a ghost out of the darkness :
he stepped aside and called, “‘ Good night!’ which the old
farmer echoed somewhat gruffly, while Fred answered in a
ringing, cheery tone.

The train rattled on through suburbs beginning far away in
the country ; rattled on through suburbs that thickened at
every mile; rattled on through a brick entanglement ;
rattled over iron bridges, rattled on over deep streets, over
endless lines of lights.

He bade her good-bye at the area gate on a promise
that they should be married in the spring. She ran upstairs
to tell her dear mistress of the happy day which her kindness
had allowed her to spend in the country, and Miss Rice laid

192
the book she was reading on her knees to listen to Esther’s
pleasures as if they were her own.

CHAPTER XXV
\
But when the spring came Esther put Fred off till the autumn,
pleading as an excuse that Miss Rice had not been very well
lately, and that she did not like to leave her.

It was one of those long and pallid evenings at the end of
July, when the sky seems as if it could not darken. The
roadway was very still in its dust and heat, and Esther, her
print dress trailing, watched a poor horse striving to pull a four-
wheeler through the loose heavy gravel that had just been laid
down. And so absorbed was she in her pity for the poor
animal that she did not see the gaunt, broad-shouldered man
coming towards her, looking very long-legged in a pair of light-
grey trousers and a black jacket a little too short for him. He
walked with long, even strides, a small cane in one hand, the

other in his trousers pocket; a heavy gold chain showed
"across his waistcoat. He wore a round bowler hat and she
caught sight of a red necktie. The side whiskers and the
shaven upper lip gave him the appearance of a gentleman’s
valet. She took him for such as he went by without noticing
Esther, but a sudden step taken sideways as she lingered, her
eyes fixed on the cab-horse, brought her into collision with
him.

“Look where you are going to,” he exclaimed, jumping
back to avoid the beer-jug, which fell to the ground. “ What,
Esther, is it you ?”

“There, you have made me drop the beer.”

“ Plenty more in the public ; I’ll get another jug.”

“ Tt is very kind of you, but I can get what I want myself.”

They looked at each other, and at the end of a long silence
William said: “ Just fancy meeting you, and in this way.
WellI never! Iam glad to see you again.”

193

“ Are you really! Well, so much for that—your way and
mine aren’t the same. I wish you good evening.”

“Stop a moment, Esther.”

“And my mistress waiting for her dinner. I’ve to go and
get some more beer.”

“Shall I wait for you ?”

“Wait forme! I should think not, indeed.”

Esther ran down the area steps. Her hand paused as it was
about to lift the jug down from the dresser, and a number of
thoughts fled across her mind. That man would be waiting
for her outside. What was she to do? How unfortunate !
If he continued to come after her he and Fred would be sure to
meet.

“What are you waiting for, I should like to know ?”’ she
cried, as she came up the steps.

“ That’s ’ardly civil, Esther, and after so many years too ;

>

anyone would thi

“T want none of your thinking ; get out of my sight. Do
you ear? I want no truck with you whatever. Haven’t you
done me enough mischief already ?”

“ Be quiet ; listen to me. I'll explain.”

“ T don’t want none of your explanation. Go away.”

Her whole nature was now in full revolt, and quick with
passionate remembrance of the injustice that had been done
her, she drew back from him, her eyes flashing, and it may
have been some passing remembrance of the breakage of the
first beer-jug that prevented her from striking him with the
second. The spasm passed, and then her rage, instead of
venting itself in violent action, assumed the form of dogged
silence. She handed the jug across the counter, and while
the barman filled it she searched her pocket for the money.
She had brought none with her. William produced
sixpence. Esther answered him with a quick angry
glance, and addressing the barman, she said, “I'll pay
you to-morrow; that'll do, I suppose? 41 Avondale
Road.”

194

“ That will be all right, but what am I to do with this
sixpence ?”’

“‘T know nothing about that,” Esther said, picking up her
skirt ; ‘“‘ I'll pay you for what I have had.”

Holding the sixpence in his short, thick, and wet fingers,
the barman looked at William. William smiled, and said,
‘Well, they do run sulky sometimes.”

He caught at the leather strap and pulled the door open for
her, and as she passed out she became aware that William still
admired her. Having ruined her life, this man passed out of
sight and knowledge, but only to reappear when a new road
leading to a new life seemed open before her. Her temper
flamed in her face.

“It was that temper of yours that did it; you wouldn’t
speak to me for a fortnight. You haven’t changed, I can see
that,” he said, watching Esther’s face, which did not alter
until he spoke of how unhappy he had been in his marriage.
‘* A regular brute she was—we’re no longer together, you
know ; haven’t been for the last three years ; couldn’t put up
_ with ’er. She was that—but that’s a long story.” Esther
did not answer him. He looked at her, and seeing that she
would not be won over easily, he spoke of his money.

“ Look ’ere, Esther,” he said, laying his hand on the area
gate. ‘‘ You won't refuse to come out with me some Sunday.
I’ve a half a share in a public-house, the ‘King’s Head,’ and
have been backing winners all this year. I’ve plenty of
money to treat you. I should like to make it up to you for
you've ’ad rather a ’ard time. Now tell me, what ’ave yer
been doing all these years? I want to ’ear.”

““ What ’ave I been doing? Trying to bring up your child!
That’s what I’ve been doing.”’

“There’s a child, then?” said William, taken aback, .
and before he could recover himself Esther dodged past
him down the area into the house. For a moment he looked
as if he were going to follow her; his mind changed, he
lingered a moment, and then walked slowly away in the

195
direction of the Metropolitan Railway.

“T’m sorry to ’ave kept you waiting, miss, but I met with
an accident and had to come back for another jug.”

“* And what was the accident you met with, Esther ?”

“TI wasn’t paying no attention, miss ; but was looking at a
cab that could ’ardly get through the stones they’ve been
laying down in the Pembroke Road ; the poor little ’orse was
pulling that ’ard that I thought he’d drop down dead, and
while I was looking I ran up against a passer-by, and being a
bit taken aback I dropped the jug.”

“How was that ? Did you know the passer-by ?”

Esther busied herself with the dishes on the sideboard and,
Miss Rice divining that something serious had happened to her
servant, refrained and allowed the dinner to pass in silence.
Half-an-hour later Esther came into the study with her
mistress’s tea, and as she set the wicker table by her mistress’s
knees the shadows about the bookcase and the light of the
lamp upon the book and the pensive content on Miss Rice’s
face impelled her to think of her own troubles, the hardship,
the passion, the despair of her life compared with this tranquil
existence. Never had she felt more certain that misfortune
was inherent in her life, and remembering all the trouble she
had had, she wondered how she had come out of it all alive ;
and now, just as things seemed like settling, everything was
going to be upset again. Fred was away for a fortnight’s
holiday—she was safe for eleven or twelve days. After that
she did not know what might happen. Her instinct told her
that although he had passed over her fault very lightly, so
long as he knew nothing of the father of her child, he might
not care to marry her if William continued to come after her.
Ah! if she hadn’t happened to go out at that particular time
she might never have met William. He didn’t live in the
neighbourhood ; if he did they would have met before.
Perhaps he had just settled in the neighbourhood. That
would be worst of all. No, no,no; it was amere accident; if
the cask of beer had held out a day or two longer, or if it had

196
run out a day or two sooner, she might never have met
William! But now she couldn’t keep out of his way and she
knew he’d come after her.

She was right. He spent the whole of the next day in
the street waiting for her. If she went out on an errand he
followed her there and back. If she’d only listen. She
was prettier than ever. He had never cared for anyone
else. He would marry her when he got his divorce, and
then the child would be theirs. She didn’t answer him, and
her blood boiled at the word “ theirs.’”’ How could Jackie
become their child ? Was it not she who had worked for him,
brought him up ? and she thought as little of his paternity as
if he had fallen from heaven into her arms.

One evening as she was laying the table her grief took her
unawares, and she was obliged to dash aside the tears that had
risen to her eyes. The action was so apparent that Miss Rice
thought it would be an affectation to ignore it. So she said in
her kind, musical, intimate manner: ‘‘ Esther, I’m afraid
you have some trouble on your mind ; can I do anything for
you ?” .

“No, miss, no, it’s nothing ; I shall get over it presently.”

But the effort of speaking was too much for her, and a
bitter sob caught her in the throat.

“You had better tell me your trouble, Esther; even if I
cannot help you it will ease your heart to tell me about it. I
hope nothing is the matter with Jackie ?”

“No, miss, no ; thank God, he’s well enough. It’s nothing
to do with him ; leastways ” Then with a violent effort
she put back her tears. ‘‘ Oh, it is silly of me,” she said, “‘ and
your dinner getting cold.”

“I don’t want to pry into your affairs, Esther, but you know
that 2

“Yes, miss, I know you to be kindness itself; but there’s
nothing to be done but to bear it. You asked me just now if
it had anything to do with Jackie. Well, it is no more than
that his father has come back.”

197

“ But surely, Esther, that’s hardly a reason for sorrow; I
should have thought that you would have been glad.”

“It is only natural that you should think so, miss; them
what hasn’t been through the trouble never thinks the same —
as them that ’as. You’see, miss, it’s nearly nine years since
I’ve seen him, and during them nine years I ’ave been through
somuch. I ’aye worked and slaved, and been through all the
’ardship, and now, when the worst is over, he comes and wants
me to marry him when he gets his divorce.”

“ Then you like someone else better ?”

“ Yes, miss, I do, and what makes it so ’ard to beards that
for the last two months or more I’ve been keeping company
with Fred Parsons—that’s the stationer’s assistant ; you’ve
seen him in the shop, miss—and he and me is engaged to be
married. He’s earning good money, thirty shillings a week ;
he’s as good a young man as ever stepped—religious, kind-
hearted, everything as would make a woman ’appy in ’er
ome. It is ard for a girl to keep up with ’er religion in some
of the situations we have to put up with, and I’d mostly got out
of the habit of chapel-going till I met him; it was ’e who led
me back again to Christ. But for all that, understanding very
well, not to say allowing for the failings of others, like your-
self, miss. He knew all about Jackie from the first, and never
said nothing about it, but that I must have suffered cruel,
which Ihave. He’s been with me to see Jackie, and they both
took to each other wonderful like ; it couldn’t ’ave been more
so if ’e’d been ’is own father. But now all that’s broke up, for
when Fred meets William it is as likely as not as he’ll think
quite different.” ji

The evening died behind the red-brick suburb, and Miss
Rice’s strip of garden grew greener. She had finished her
dinner, and she leaned back thinking of the story she had
heard. She was one of those secluded maiden ladies so
common in England, whose experience of life is limited to a
tea-party, and whose further knowledge of life is derived from
_the yellow-backed French novels which fill their bookcases.

198

‘ How was it that you happened to meet William—lI think
you said his name was William ?”

“ It was the day, miss, that I went to fetch the beer from the
public-house. It was he that made me drop the jug; you
remember, miss, I had to come back for another. I told you
about it at the time. When I went out again with a fresh jug
he was waiting for me, he followed me to the ‘ Greyhound ’
and wanted to pay for the beer—not likely that I’d let him.
So I told them to put it on the slate, saying I’d pay for it
to-morrow, and didn’t speak to him on leaving the bar, but he
followed me to the gate. He wanted to know what I’d been
doing all the time. My temper got the better of me, and I
says, ‘ Looking after your child.’ ‘ My child!’ says he. ‘So
there’s a child, is there ?’ ”’

“T think you told me that he married one of the young
ladies at the place you were then in situation ?”

“Young lady! No fear, she wasn’t no young lady. Any-
way, she was too good or too bad for him ; for they didn’t get
on, and are now living separate.”

“Does he speak about the child? Does he ask to see
him ?”

“ Lor’, yes, miss ; he’d the cheek to say the other day that
we'd make him our child—our child, indeed! and after all
these years I’ve been working and he doing nothing.”

“* Perhaps he might like to do something for him! perhaps
that’s what he’s thinking of.”

“No, miss, I know him better than that. For that’s his
cunning ; he thinks he’ll get me through the child.”

““In any case I don’t see what you'll gain by refusing to
speak to him ; if you want to do something for the child, you
can.”

““T don’t want his money ; please God, we'll be able to do
without it to the end.”

“Mf I were to die to-morrow, Esther, remember that you
would be in exactly the same position as you were when you
entered my service. You remember what that was? You

199

have often told me there was only eighteenpence between you
and the workhouse ; you owed Mrs. Lewis two weeks’ money
for the support of the child. I daresay you’ve saved a little
money since you’ve been with me, but it cannot be more than
afew pounds. I don’t think that you ought to let this chance
slip through your fingers : if not for your own, for Jackie’s sake.
William, according to his own account, is making money. He
may become a rich man; he has no children by his wife ; he
might like to leave some of his money—in any case, he’d like
to leave something—to Jackie.”

“ He was always given to boasting about money..I don’t
believe all he says about money or anything else.”

“That may be, but he may have money, and you have no
right to refuse to allow him to provide for Jackie. Supposing
later on Jackie were to reproach you ?”

“* Jackie’d never do that, miss; he’d know I acted for the
best.”

“If you again found yourself out of a situation, and saw
Jackie crying for his dinner, you’d reproach yourself.”

* “T don’t think I should, miss.”

“T know you are very obstinate, Esther. When does
Parsons return ?”

“ In about a week, miss.”

“ Without telling William anything about Parsons, you'll be
able to find out whether it is his intention to interfere in your
life. I quite agree with you that it is important that the two
men should not meet; but it seems to me, by refusing to
speak to William, and by refusing to let him see Jackie, you're
doing all you can to bring about the meeting that you wish to
avoid. Is he much about here ?”

“‘ Yes, miss, he seems hardly ever out of the street, and it do
look so bad for the ’ouse. I feel that ashamed. Since I’ve
been with you, miss, I don’t think you’ve ’ad to complain of
followers.”

“Well, don’t you see, you foolish girl, that he’ll remain

hanging about, and the moment Parsons comes back he'll

ie)

200
hear of it ?. You'd better see to this at once.”

“‘ Whatever you says, miss, always do seem right, some’ow.
What you says seems reasonable, and yet I don’t know how
to bring myself to go to ’im. I told ’im that I didn’t want no
truck with ’im.”

“Yes, I think you said so. It is a delicate matter to
advise anyone in, but I feel sure I am right when I say that
you have no right to refuse to allow him to do something for
the child. Jackie is now eight years old, you’ve not the
means of giving him a proper education, and you know the
disadvantage it has been to you not to know how to read and
write.”

“Jackie can read beautifully—Mrs. Lewis ’as taught
him.”

“Yes, Esther; but there’s much besides reading and
writing. Think over what I’ve said; you're a sensible girl ;
think it out when you go to bed to-night.”

Next day, seeing William in the street, she went upstairs to
ask Miss Rice’s permission to go out. ‘“‘ Could you spare me,
miss, for an hour or so?” was all she said, and Miss Rice, who
had noticed a man loitering, replied, ‘‘ Certainly, Esther.”

“You aren’t afraid to be left in the house alone, miss? I
shan’t be far away.”

““No. Iam expecting Mr. Alden. I'll let him in, and can
make the tea myself.”

Esther ran up the area steps and walked quickly down
the street, as if she were going on anerrand. William crossed
the road and was soon alongside of her.

“Don’t be so ’ard on a chap,” he said. “ Just listen to
reason.”

“IT don’t want to listen to you ; you can’t have much to say
that I care for.”

Her tone was still stubborn, but he perceived that it
contained a change of humour.

“Come for a little walk, and then, if you don’t agree with
what I says, I’ll never come after you again.”

201
“ You must take me for a fool if you think I’d listen to your
promises.”
“Esther, ’ear me out; you're very unforgiving, but if
you'd ’ear me out ae

“You can speak ; no one’s stopping you that I can see.”

“T can’t say it off like that ; itis along story. I know that
I’ve behaved badly to you, but it wasn’t as much my fault as
you think for ; I could explain a good lot of it.”

“T ’aven’t time to ’ear all your rubbish. Now what ’ave
you to say? Come, get it out.”

“ There’s the boy.”

“ Oh, it is the boy you’re thinking of ?”

“Yes, and you too, Esther. The mother can’t be. parted
from the child.”

“ Very likely ; the father can, though.”

“If you talk so snappish I shall never get out what I’ve to
say. I’ve treated you badly, and it is to make up for the past

”?>

as far as I can

“And how do you know that you aren’t doing harm by
coming after me ?”

“You mean you're keeping company with a chap and don’t
want me ?” .

“You don’t know I’m not a married woman ; you don’t
know what kind of situation I’m in. You comes after me
just because it pleases your fancy, and don’t give it a thought
that you mightn’t get me the sack as you got it me before.”

“‘ There’s no use nagging ; just let’s go where we can have a
talk, and then if you aren’t satisfied you can go your way and I
cangomine. You said I didn’t know that you wasn’t married.
I don’t, but if you aren’t, so much the better. If you are,
you've only to say so and I'll take my hook. I’ve done quite
enough harm, without coming between you and your husband.”’

William spoke earnestly, and his words came so evidently
from his heart that Esther was touched against her will.

“* No, I ain’t married yet,” she replied.

“ T’m glad of that.”

202

‘I don’t see what odds it can make to you whether I’m
married or not. If I ain’t married, you are.”

William and Esther walked on in silence, listening to the
day as it hushed in quiet suburban murmurs under an almost
colourless sky—a faded grey, that passed into an insignificant
blue; and upon this almost neutral tint the ved suburb
appeared in rigid outline, the wind raising a cloud of dust in the
roadway at intervals.

“‘ Let’s go in there,” he said, stopping before a piece of

waste ground, “ we'll be able to talk easier ”’; and they went
in and looked for a place where they could sit down.

“ This is just like old times,” said William, moving a little
closer.

“ If you are going to begin any of that nonsense I’ll get up
and go. I only came out with you because you said you had
something particular to say about the child.”

“ Well, it is only natural that I should like to see my son.”

“ How do you know it’s a son ?”

“‘T thought you said so. I should like it to be a boy—is it?”’
_ “ Yes, itis a boy, and a lovely boy too ; very different to his

father. I’ve always told him that his father is dead.”

~ Andis he sorry ¢2")

“Not a bit. I’ve told him his father wasn’t good to me ;
and he don’t care for those who haven’t been good to his
mother.”

““T see, you’ve brought him up to hate me ?”

“He don’t know nothing about you—how should ’e ?”

““ Very likely ; but there’s no need to be nasty. As I’ve
said before, what’s done can’t be undone. I treated you
badly, I know that; and I’ve been badly treated myself—
damned badly treated. You’ve ’ad a ’ard time ; so have I, if
that’s any comfort to ye.”

“ T suppose it is wrong of me, but seeing you has brought up
a deal of bitterness, more than I thought there was in me.”

William lay at length, his body resting on one arm, with a
long grass stalk between his small, discoloured teeth. Esther

203

sat straight up, her stiff cotton dress spread over the rough
grass ; her cloth jacket unbuttoned. He thought her a nice-
looking woman, one who’d do well behind the bar of the
“ King’s Head.” His marriage had proved childless, in
every way a failure ; and he now desired a wife such as he felt
sure she would be. And, his heart hankering after his son
sorely, he tried to read Esther’s quiet, subdued face, which
was now graver than usual, betraying none of the passion that
choked in her as she sat thinking that she must manage
somehow. But how? She noticed that he was looking at
her, and to lead his thoughts away from herself she asked him
where he had gone with his wife when they left Woodview.

“ Peggy knew all the time I was gone on you.”

“It don’t matter about that. Tell me where you went—
they said you went foreign.”

“ We first went to Boulogne, that’s in France ; but everyone
speaks English there, and there was a nice billiard-room handy,
where all the big betting men came in of an evening. We
went to the races. I backed three winners on the first day—
the second I didn’t do so well. Then we went on to Paris.
The race-meetings is very ’andy—I will say that for Paris—
half an hour’s drive and there you are.”

“ Did your wife like Paris ?”

“Yes, she liked it pretty well—it is all the one for fashion,
and the shops is grand; but she got tired of it too, and we
went to Italy.”

“ Where’s that ?”

“ That’s down south. A beast of a place—nothing but sour
wine, and all the cookery done in oil, and nothing to do but
seeing picture-galleries. I got that sick of it I could stand it
no longer, and I said, “ I’ve ’ad enough of this. I want to go
home, where I can get a glass of Burton and a cut from the
joint, and where there’s a ’orse worth looking at.’ ”

“‘ But she was very fond of you. She must have been.”

“‘ She was, in her way. But she always liked talking to the
singers and the painters that we met out yonder. Nothing

204
wrong, you know. That was after we had been married about
three years.”

“What was that ? ”’

“ That I caught her out.”

‘“How do you know there was anything wrong? Men
always think bad of women.” \

“ No, it was right enough ;: she had got dead sick of me, and
I had got dead sick of her. It never did seem natural like.
There was no ’omeliness in it, and a marriage that ain’t
’omely is no marriage forme. Her friends weren’t my friends;
and as for my friends, she never left off insulting me about
them. IfI was to ask a chap in she wouldn’t sit in the same
room with him. That’s what it got to at last. And I was
always thinking of you, and your name used to come up when
we was talking. One day she said, ‘ I suppose you are sorry
you didn’t marry a servant ?’ and I said, ‘I suppose you are
sorry you did ?’”

‘* That was a good one for her. Did she say she was ?”

** She put her arms round my neck and said she loved none
_ but her big Bill. But all her flummery didn’t take me in.
And I says to myself, ‘ Keep an eye on her.’ For there was a
young fellow hanging about™in a manner I didn’t particularly
like. He was too anxious to be polite to me, he talked to me
about ’orses, and I could see he knew nothing about them.
He even went so far as go down to Kempton with me.”

“And how did it all end ?”

“ T said I'll keep my eye on this young whipper-snapper, and
coming up from Ascot by an earlier train than they expected
me, I let myself in and ran up to the drawing-room, and there
I found them sitting side by side on the sofa. The young
fellow turned red, and he got up, stammering, and speaking a
lot of rot.

“*What! you back already? How did you get on at
Ascot? Had a good day ?’

‘‘* Rippin’ ; but I’m going to have a better one now,’ I said,
keeping my eye all the while on my wife. I could see by her

205

face that there was no doubt about it. Then I took him by the
throat. ‘I just give you two minutes to confess the truth ; I
know it, but I want to hear it from you. Now, out with it, or
I'll strangle you.’ I gave him a squeeze just to show him that
I meant it. He turned up his eyes, and my wife cried
‘Murder!’ I threw him back from me and got between her
and the door, locked it, and put the key in my pocket. ‘ Now,’
I said, ‘ I'll drag the truth out of you both.’ He did look white,
he shrivelled up by the chimney-piece, and she—well, she
looked as if she could have killed me, only there was nothing to
kill me with. I saw her look at the fire-irons. Then, in her
nasty sarcastic way, she said, ‘ There’s no reason, Percy, why
he shouldn’t know. Yes,’ she said, ‘ he is my lover ; you can
get your divorce when you like.’

“T was a bit/taken aback ; my idea was to squeeze it all out
of the fellow and shame him before her. But she spoilt my
little game there, and I could see by her eyes that she knew
that she had. ‘ Now, Percy,’ she said, ‘we'd better go.’
That put my blood up. I said, ‘ Go you shall, but not till I
give you leave,’ and without another word I took him by the
collar and led him to the door ; he came like a lamb, and I sent
him off with as fine a kick as he ever got in his life. He went
rolling down, and didn’t stop till he got to the bottom. You
should have seen her look at me; there was murder in her
eyes. If she could she’d have killed me, but she couldn’t and
calmed down a bit. “Let me go; what do you want me
for? Youcangetadivorce. I'll pay the costs.’

“* J don’t think I’d gratify you so much. So you'd like to
marry him, would you, my beauty ?’

““* He’s a gentleman, and I’ve had enough of you; if you
want money you shall have it.’

“T laughed at her, and so it went on for an hour or more.
Then she suddenly calmed down. I knew something was up,
only I didn’t know what. I don’t know if I told you we was in
lodgings—the usual sort, drawing-room with folding doors, the
bedroom at the back. She went into the bedroom, and I

206

followed, just to make sure she couldn’t get out that way.
There was a chest of drawers before the door ; I thought she
couldn’t move it, and went back into the sitting-room. But
somehow she managed to move it without my hearing her, and
before I could stop her she was down the stairs like lightning.
I went after her, but she had too long a start of me, and the
last I heard was the street door go bang.”

The conversation paused. William took the stalk he
was chewing from his teeth, and threw it aside. Esther
had picked one, and with it she beat impatiently among the
grass.

‘But what has all this to do with me? ” she said. “ If this
is all you have brought me out to listen to——”

“That’s a nice way to round on me. Wasn’t it you what
asked me to tell you the story ?”

‘* So you’ve deserted two women instead of one, that’s about
the long and short of it.”

“Well, if that’s what you think I’d better be off,” said
William, and he rose to his feet and stood looking at her.

_She sat quite still, not daring to raise her eyes; her heart
was throbbing violently. Would he go away and never
come back? Should she answer him indifferently or say
nothing ? She chose the latter course. Perhaps it was
the wrong one, for her dogged silence irritated him, and he
sat down and begged of her to forgive him.~ He would wait
for her. Then her heart ceased throbbing, and a cold numb-
ness came over her hands.

‘““My wife thought that I had no money, and could do
what she liked with me. But I had been backing winners
all the season, and had a couple of thousand in the bank.
I put aside a thousand for working expenses, for I intended
to give up backing horses and go in for bookmaking instead.
I have been at it ever since. A few ups and downs, but I
can’t complain. I am worth to-day close on three thousand
pounds.”

At the mention of so much money Esther raised her eyes.

207
She looked at William steadfastly. Her object was to rid
herself of him, so that she might marry another man ; but at
that moment a sensation of the love she had once felt for him
sprang upon her suddenly.

“ I must be getting back, my mistress will be waiting forme.”

“You needn’t be in such a hurry. It is quite early.
Besides, we haven’t settled nothing yet.”

“You've been telling me about your wife. I don’t see
much what it’s got to do with me.”

“ T thought you was interested, that you wanted to see that
I wasn’t as much to blame as you thought.”

“TI must be getting back,” she said; ‘‘anything else you
have to say to me you can tell me on the way home.”

“ Well, it all amounts to this, Esther ; if I get a divorce we
might come together again. What do you think ?”

“T think you’d much better make it up with her. I
daresay she’s very sorry for what she’s done.”

“ That’s all rot, Esther. She ain’t sorry, and wouldn’t live
with me no more than I with her. We could not get on;
what’s the use? You'd better let bygones by bygones.
You know what I mean—marry me.”

“ T don’t think I could do that.”

“You like some other chap. You like some chap, and
don’t want me interfering in your life. That’s why you wants
me to go back and live with my wife. You don’t think of
what I’ve gone through with her already.”

““You’ve not been through half of what I have. I'll be
bound that you never wanted a dinner. I have.”

“Esther, think of the child.”

** You're a nice one to tell me to think of the child, I who
worked and slaved for him all these years.”

“ Then I’m to take no for an answer ?”

“J don’t want to have nothing to do with you.”

“ And you won’t let me see the child ?”

A moment later Esther answered, ‘‘ You can see the child, if
you like.”

208
“ Where is he ?”
“You can come with me to see him next Sunday, if you
like. Now let me goin.”
“‘ What time shall I come for you ?”
“ About three—a little after.”

CHAPTER XXVI

Wi11aM was waiting for her by the area railings ; and while
pinning on her hat she thought of what she should say, and
how she should act. But she didn’t know her mind, and it was
not till the long black pin that held her hat to her hair went
through the straw with a little sharp sound, that she decided
that when the time came she would know what to say.

As he stepped aside to let her go up the area steps, she
noticed how beautiful were his grey trousers, and that he
wore a bunch of carnations in his spick-and-span morning
coat. “ Quite a toff,” she said to herself, and they walked
some half-dozen yards up the street in silence.

“‘ But why do you want to see the boy ? You never thought
of him all these years.” ~

“Tl tell you, Esther. But it is nice to be walking out with
you again. If you'd only let bygones be bygones we might
settle down together yet. What do you think ?”

She did not answer, and he continued: ‘“‘It do seem
strange to be walking out with you again, meeting you after
all these years, and I’m never in your neighbourhood. I just
happened to have a bit of business with a friend who lives your
way, and was coming along from his ’ouse, turning over in my
mind what he had told me about Rising Sun for the Stewards’
Cup, when I saw you coming along with the jug in your ’and.
I said, ‘ That’s the prettiest girl I’ve seen this many a day ;
that’s the sort of girl I’d like to see behind the bar of the
““ King’s Head.” ’ You always keeps your figure—you know
you ain’t a bit changed ; and when I caught sight of those

209
white teeth I said, ‘ Lor’, why, it’s Esther.’ ”

“ T thought it was about the child you was going to speak to
me.”

“So I am, but you came first in my estimation. The
moment I looked into your eyes I felt it had been a mistake all
along, and that you was the only one I had cared about.”’

“Then all about wanting to see the child was a pack of
lies ?”

““ No, they weren’t lies. I wanted both mother and child—
if I could get em. I’m telling you the plain truth, Esther. I
thought of the child as a way of getting you back ; but little
by little I began to take an interest in him, to wonder what he
was like, and with thoughts of the boy came different thoughts
of you, Esther, who is the mother of my boy. Then I wanted
you both back ; I’ve thought of nothing else ever since.”

At that moment they reached the Metropolitan Railway,
and William pressed forward to get the tickets. A subter-
raneous rumbling was heard, and they ran down the steps as
fast as they could ; seeing them so near, the ticket-collector
held the door open for them, and just as the train was moving
from the platform William pushed Esther into a second-class
compartment.

“We're in the wrong class,” she cried.

“No, we ain’t; get in, get in,” he shouted. And with the
guard crying to him to desist, he hopped in after her saying,
“You very nearly made me miss the train. What ’ud you’ve
done if the train had taken you away and left me behind ?”

“ Then you travel second-class ? ” Esther said.

“Yes, I always travel second-class now; Peggy never
would, but second seems to me quite good enough. I don’t
care about third, unless I’m with a lot of pals, and can keep the
carriage to ourselves. That’s the way we manage it when we
go down to Newmarket or Doncaster.”

And they being alone in the compartment William leaned
forward and took her hand.

“ Try to forgive me, Esther.”

210

She drew her hand, away ; he got up and sat down beside
her, and put his arm around her waist.

“No, no. I'll have none of that. All that sort of thing is
over between us.”

He looked at her inquisitively, not knowing how to act.

‘“‘T know you’ve had a hard time, Esther. Tell me about
it. What did you do when you left Woodview? Did you
ever meet anyone since that you cared for ?””’

The question irritated her, and she said, “‘ It don’t matter to
you who I met or what I went through.”

William spoke about the Barfields, and Esther could not but

listen to the tale of what had happened at Woodview during
the last eight years.
. Woodview had been all her unhappiness and all her mis-
fortune. She had gone there when the sap of life was flowing
fastest in her, and Woodview had become the most precise
and distinct vision she had gathered from life. She remem-
bered that wholesome and ample country house, with its park
and its down lands, and the valley farm, sheltered by the long
lines of elms. She remembered the racehorses, their slight
shapes showing under the grey clothing, the round black eyes
looking out through the eyelet holes in the hanging hoods, the
odd little boys astride—a string of six or seven passing always
before the kitchen windows, going through the paddock gate
under the bunched ilex-trees. She remembered the rejoicings
when the horse won at Goodwood, and the ball at the Shore-
ham Gardens. Woodview had meant too much in her life to
be forgotten ; its hillside and its people, and something in
William’s voice recalled her from her reverie, and she heard
him say : ;

“The poor Gaffer, ’e never got over it; it regular broke
‘im up ; for I was nearly forgetting to tell you it was Ginger
who was riding, and that he did all he knew; he lost start, he
tried to get shut in, but it warn’t no go, luck was against them ;
the ’orse was full of running, and, of course, he couldn’t sit
down and saw his blooming ’ead off, right in th’ middle of the

211

course, with Sir Thomas’s (that’s the ’andicapper) field-glasses
on him. He’d have been warned off the blooming ’eath, and
he couldn’t afford that, even to save his own father. The
‘orse won in a canter: they clapped eight stun on him for the
Cambridgeshire, and it broke the Gaffer’s ’eart. He had to
sell off his ’orses, and he died soon after the sale, of con-
sumption. It generally takes them off earlier ; but they say
it is in the family. Miss Mary——”

“Oh, tell me about her,” said Esther, who had been
thinking all the while of Mrs. Barfield and of Miss Mary.
“ Tell me, there’s nothing the matter with Miss Mary ?”

“Yes, there is : she can’t live no more in England ; she has
to go to winter, I think it is, in Algeria.”

At that moment the train screeched along the rails, and,
vibrating under the force of the brakes, it passed out of the
tunnel into Blackfriars.

“We shall just be able to catch the ten minutes past four
to Peckham,” she said, and they ran up the high steps.
William strode along so fast that Esther was obliged to cry
out, “ There’s no use, William ; train or no train, I can’t walk
at that rate.”

There was just time for them to get their tickets at Ludgate
Hill. They were in a carriage by themselves, and he proposed
to draw up the windows so that they might be able to talk
more easily.

** Never mind about the ’orses, tell me about the Saint.”

“You seem to be very fond of her; what did she do for

you ?”

“ Everything—that was after you went away. She was
kind.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said William.

“So they spends the summer at Woodview and goes to
foreign parts for the winter ?”

“Yes, that’s it. Most of the estate was sold; but the
Saint has her fortune, about five hundred a year, and they just
manage to live there in a sort of hole-and-corner sort of way,

*

212
not able to afford to keep a trap, and towards the end of
October they go off and don’t return till the beginning of
May. You remember the stables they were putting up when
Silver Braid won the two cups? Well, they are just as when
you last saw them—rafters and walls.”

“ Racing don’t seem to bring no luck to anyone. It ain’t
my affair, but if I was you I’d give it up and get to some
honest work.”

“Racing has been a good friend to me. I don’t know
where I should be without it to-day.”

“So all the servants have left Woodview? I wonder what
has become of them.”

“You remember my mother, the cook? She died a
couple of years ago.”

“Mrs. Latch! Oh, I’m so sorry.”

‘‘ She was anold woman. You remember John Randal, the
butler? He’s in a situation in Cumberland Place, near the
Marble Arch. He sometimes comes round and has a glass in
the ‘ King’s Head.’ Sarah Tucker—she’s in a situation
somewhere in town. I don’t know what has become of
Margaret Gale.”

““T met her one day inthe Strand. I’d had nothing to eat
allday. I was almost fainting, and she took me into a public-
house and gave me a sausage.”

The train began to slacken speed ; William said, “ this is
Peckham,” and they passed into the air of an irregular little
street—low disjointed shops and houses, where the tramcars
tinkled through a slacker tide of humanity than the Londoners
were accustomed to.

“This way,” said Esther. “This is the way to the
Bye.

“Then Jackie lives at the Rye ?”

“ Not far from the Rye. Do you know East Dulwich ?”

““No, I never was here before.”

“Mrs. Lewis (that’s the woman who looks after him) lives
at East Dulwich, but it ain’t very far. I always gets out here.

213
I suppose you don’t mind a quarter of an hour’s walk.”

“Not when I’m with you,” William replied gallantly, and
he followed her through the passers-by, the Rye opening up
before them like a large park, with slender trees and a
Japanese pavilion quaintly placed on a little mound. At the
Peckham end there were a dozen handsome trees, and under
them a piece of artificial water where boys were sailing toy
boats and a spaniel was swimming ; and as Esther and William
passed on they saw two old ladies in black come out of a
garden full of hollyhocks, and walked towards a seat and sat
down in the autumn landscape to enjoy the vast expanse full
of the last days of cricket. An upland background in grada-
tions, interspaced with villas, terraces, and gardens, and steep
hillside, showing fields and hayricks, brought the Rye to a
picturesque and abrupt end. And turning to the right,
leaving the Rye behind them, the twain ascended a long,
monotonous, and very ugly road composed of artificial little
houses, each set in a portion of very metallic garden. These
continued all the way to the top of a long hill, straggling into a
piece of waste ground where there were some trees and a few
rough cottages. A little boy came running towards them,
stumbling over the cinder heaps and the tin canisters with
which the place was strewn, and William felt that that child
was his.

“ That child will break ’is blooming little neck if ’e don’t
take care,” he remarked tentatively.

She hated him to see the child, and to assert her complete
ownership she clasped Jackie to her bosom without a word of
explanation, and questioned him on matters about which
William knew nothing, William standing by all the while like a
stranger looking tenderly on his son, waiting for Esther to
introduce them. The boy looked suddenly towards his father,
and Esther repented a little of her cruelty.

“« Jackie,” she said, “ do you know who this gentleman is
who has come to see you ?”

“No, I don’t.”

214

She didn’t care that Jackie should love his father, and yet
she could not help feeling sorry for William.

“I’m your father,” said William.

‘No, you ain’t. I ain’t got no father.”

“ How do you know, Jackie ?””

‘* Father died before I was born ; mother told me.”

“‘ But mother may be mistaken.”

‘‘ If my father hadn’t died before I was born he’d ’ve been to
see us before this. Come, mother, come to tea. Mrs.
Lewis ’as got hot cakes, and they’ll be burnt if we stand
talking.”

“Yes, dear, but what the gentleman says is quite true ; he
is your father.”

Jackie made no answer, and Esther said: “I told you
your father was dead, but I was mistaken.”

“Won't you come and walk with me ? ” said William.

“No, thank you ; I like to walk with mother.”

“ He’s always like that with strangers,” said Esther ; “ it is
shyness ; but he'll come and talk to you presently, if you
leave him alone.”

Each cottage had a rough piece of garden, and Mrs.
Lewis’s large face showed over the broken paling among the
yellow crowns of the sunflowers. A moment later she was at
the gate welcoming her visitors. The affection of her welcome
was checked on seeing that William was with Esther, and she
drew aside respectfully to let this fine gentleman pass.

“ This is Jackie’s father.” .

“What, never! I thought—but I’m sure we’re very glad
to see you.” Then noticing the fine gold chain that hung
across his waistcoat, the cut of his clothes, and the air of
money which his whole bearing seemed to represent, she
became a little obsequious in her welcome.

“I’m sure, sir, we’re very glad to see you. Won't you sit
down ?” and, dusting a chair with her apron, she handed it to
him. Then turning to Esther, she said :

“Sit yourself down, dear ; tea’ll be ready in a moment.”

215
She was one of those women who, although their apron-
strings are a good yard in length, preserve a strange agility of
movement and a pleasant vivacity of speech. “I ’ope, sir,
we've brought ’im up to your satisfaction; we’ve done the
best we could. He’s a dear boy. There’s been a bit of
jealousy between us on ’is account, but for all that we ’aven’t
spoilt him. I don’t want to praise him, but he’s as well-
behaved a boy as I knows of. Maybe a bit wilful, but there -
ain’t much fault to find with him, and I ought to know, for it is
I that ’ad the bringing up of him since he was a baby of two
months old. Jackie dear, why don’t you go to your father ?”

He stood by his mother’s chair, twisting his slight legs in a
manner that was peculiar to him. His dark hair fell in thick,
heavy locks over his small face, and from under the shadow of
his locks his great luminous eyes glanced at his father furtively.
Mrs. Lewis told him to take his finger out of his mouth, and
thus encouraged he went towards William, still twisting his
legs and looking curiously dejected. He did not speak for
some time, but he allowed William to put his arm round him
and draw him against his knees. And then fixing his eyes on
the toes of his shoes he said abruptly, but confidentially :

“ Are you really my father? No humbug, you know,’ he
added, raising his eyes, and for a moment looking William
searchingly in the face.

“I’m not humbugging, Jack. I’m your father right
enough. Don’t you like me? But I think you said you
didn’t want to have a father ?”

Jackie did not answer this question at once. After a
moment’s reflection, he said, “‘ If you be father, why didn’t
you come to see us before ?”

William glanced at Esther, who, in her turn, glanced at
Mrs. Lewis.

“ I’m afraid that’s rather a long story, Jackie. I was away
in foreign parts.”

Jackie looked as if he would like to hear about “ foreign
parts,” and William awaited the question that seemed to

P

- /

216
tremble on the child’s lips. But, instead, he turned suddenly
to Mrs. Lewis : :

“ The cakes aren’t burnt, are they? Iran as fast as I could
the moment I saw them coming.”

The childish abruptness of the transition made them laugh.
Mrs. Lewis took ‘the plate of cakes from the fender and
poured out the tea ; and, the door and window being open, the
dying light lent a tenderness to the tea-table, to the quiet
solicitude of the mother watching her son, knowing him in all
his intimate habits ; to the eager curiosity of the father on the
other side, leaning forward delighted at every look and word,
thinking it all astonishing, wonderful, and to the child sitting
between the women, who seemed to understand that his
chance of eating as many tea-cakes as he pleased had come at
last. He ate with his eyes fixed on the plate, considering
which piece he would have when he had finished the piece he
had in his hand. Little was said—a few remarks about the
fine weather, and offers to pour out another cup of tea. By
their silence Mrs. Lewis began to understand that they had
differences to settle, and she took her shawl from the peg, and
pleaded that she had an appointment with a neighbour. But
she wouldn’t be more than half an hour away; would they
look after the house till her return? And William watched
her, thinking of what he would say when she was out of
hearing.

“That boy of ours is a dear little fellow; you’ve been a
good mother, I can see that. If I had only known.”

“ There’s no use talking no more about it ; what’s done is
done.”

The cottage door was open, and in the still evening they
could see their child swinging on the gate. The moment
brimmed with responsibility, and yet the words as they fell
from their lips seemed accidental.

At last he said :

“Esther, I can get a divorce.”

“You'd much better go back to your wife. Once

217
married, always married, that’s my way of thinking.”

“T’m sorry to hear you say it, Esther. Do you think a
man should stop with his wife who’s been treated as I have
been ?”

Esther avoided a direct reply, asking him instead, why
he should care about a child for whom he had never done
anything? To which William answered that if he had
known there was a child he would have left his wife long ago,
for that he loved Jackie just as much as she did.

“That would have been very wrong.”

“We ain’t getting no for’arder by discussing them things,”
he said, interrupting her. ‘‘ We can’t say good-bye after this
evening and never see one another again.”

“Why not? I’m nothing to you now; you've got a wife
of your own ; you’ve no claim upon me ; you can go your way
and I can keep to mine.”

“ There’s that child. I must do something for him.”

“ Well, you can do something for him without ruining me.”

“ Ruining you, Esther ?”

“Yes, ruining me. I ain’t going to lose my character by
keeping company with a married man. You’ve done me
harm enough already, and should be ashamed to think of
doing me any more. You can pay for the boy’s schooling if
you like, you can pay for his keep too, but you mustn’t think
that in doing so you'll get hold of me again.”

“Do you mean it, Esther ?”

“ Followers ain’t allowed where I am You're a married
man. I won’t have it.”

“ But when I get my divorce ?”

“‘ When you get your divorce! I don’t know how it’ll be
then. But here’s Mrs. Lewis ; she’s a-scolding of Jackie for
swinging on that ’ere gate. Naughty boy; he’s been told
twenty times not to swing on the gate.”

Esther complained that they had stayed too long, that he
had made her late, saying he might write if he had anything
important to say, but she wouldn’t keep company with a

218

married man. Whereupon William seemed very downcast.
Esther, too, was unhappy, and without knowing why, for she
had succeeded as well as she had expected, her idea being to
keep William out of the way and hurry on her marriage with
Fred. But this marriage, once desired, no longer gave her
pleasure, filled her rather with misgiving. She had told
Fred about the child. He had forgiven her. But men were
all for forgiving before marriage, but afterwards how would it
be? Would he reproach her with her fault the first time they
came to disagree about anything? She had no luck, and
didn’t want to marry anyone.

The visit to Dulwich had upset her. She ought to have
kept out of William’s way, but that man seemed to have a
power over her, and she hated him for it. Now what did
he want to see the child for? The child was nothing to
him. She had been a fool! and through this fever of trouble
there raged up and down her mind the thought of what
Jackie thought of his father, and what Mrs. Lewis thought of
William.

And the desire to know what was happening becoming
great, she went to her mistress to ask for leave to go out,
without her agitation betraying itself in her demeanour, yet
Miss Rice’s sharp eyes guessed that her servant’s life was at a
crisis. Her book dropped on her knee, she asked a few kind,
discreet questions, and after dinner Esther hurried towards the
Underground.

The door of the cottage was open, and as she crossed the
little garden she heard Mrs. Lewis say :

“Now you must be a good boy, and not go out in the
garden and spoil your new clothes.” And when Esther
entered Mrs. Lewis was giving the finishing touches to the
necktie which she had just tied. Now you'll go and sit on that
chair, like a good boy, and wait there till your father comes.”

“ Oh, here’s mummie,” cried the boy, and he escaped out
of Mrs. Lewis’s hand. ‘ Look at my new clothes, mummie ;
look at them !” And Esther saw her boy dressed in a suit of

219
velveteen knickerbockers with brass buttons, and a sky-blue
necktie.

“ His father—I mean Mr. Latch—came here on Thursday
morning, and took him to——”

“ Took me up to London

“ And brought him back in those clothes.”

“We went to such a big shop in Oxford Street for them,
and they took down many suits before they could get one to
fit. Father is that difficult to please, and I thought we should
go away without any clothes, and I couldn’t walk about
London with father in these old things. Aren’t they shabby ?”
he added, kicking them contemptuously. It was a little grey
suit that Esther had made for him with her own hands.

“Father had me measured for another suit, but it won’t
be ready for a few days. Father took me to the Zoological
Gardens, and we saw the lions and tigers, and there are such

”?

a lot of monkeys. There is one—— But what makes you
look so cross, mummie dear? Don’t you ever go out with
father in London? London is such a beautiful place. And
then we walked through the park and saw a lot of boys
sailing boats. Father asked me if I had a boat. I said you
were too poor to buy me toys. He said that was hard lines on
me, and on the way back to the station we stopped at a toy-
shop and he bought mea boat. May I show you my boat ?”
Jackie was so primed with thoughts of his boat that he did
not notice the gloom that was gathering on his mother’s
face ; and before Mrs. Lewis could make up her mind what to
do, he was forcing his toy into his mother’s hands, saying :
‘* This is a cutter-rigged boat, because it has three sails and
only one mast. Father told me so, and he’ll be here in half
an hour, for we’re going to sail the boat in the pond on the
Rye, and if it gets across all right he’ll take me to the park —
where there’s a big piece of water, twice, three times as big as
the water on the Rye. Do you think, mummie, that I shall
ever be able to get my boat across such a piece of water as the
—I’ve forgotten the name. What do they call it, mummie ?”

220

“Oh, I don’t know; don’t bother me with your boat.”

“Oh, mummie, what’ have I done that you won’t look at
my boat? Aren’t you coming with father to the Rye to see
me sail it ?”

“JT don’t want to go with you. Come, don’t plague me
any more with your boat,” she said, pushing it away, and
then in a moment of passion she threw it across the room.
Jackie ran to his toy, he picked it up, and his face showed
his grief. ‘‘ I shan’t be able to sail my boat now; it won’t
sail, its mast and the sails is broke. Mummie, what did you
break my boat for ?”’ and the child burst into tears. At that
moment William entered.

“* What is the child crying for ?”’ he asked, stopping abruptly
on the threshold. There was a slight tone of authority in his
voice which angered Esther still more.

“* What is it to you what he is crying for ?”’ she said, turning
quickly round. ‘“‘ What has the child got to do with you that
you should come down ordering people about for? A nice
sort of mean trick, and one that is just like you. You beg and
pray of me to let you see the child, and when I do you come
’ down here on the sly, and with the present of a suit of clothes
and a toy boat you try to win his love away from his mother ”

“ Esther, Esther, I never thought of getting his love from
you. I meant no harm. Mrs. Lewis said that he was
looking a trifle moped ; we thought that a change would do
him good, and so——”

“Ah! it was Mrs. Lewis that asked you to take him up
to London. It is a strange thing what a little money will
do. Ever since you set foot in this cottage she has been
curtseying and handing you chairs. I didn’t much like it,
but I didn’t think that she would round on me in this way.”
And then turning suddenly on her old friend, she said:
“Who told you to let him have the child? Is it he or I who
pays you for his keep? Answer me that. How much did he
give you—a new dress ?”’

“Oh, Esther, I am surprised at you! I didn’t think it

221
would come to accusing me of being bribed, and after all
these years.” Mrs. Lewis put her apron to her eyes, and
Jackie stole over to his father.

“It wasn’t I who smashed the boat, it was mummie ;
she’s in a temper., I don’t know why she smashed it. I
didn’t do nothing.”

William took the child on his knee.

“She didn’t mean to smash it. There’s a good boy, don’t
cry no more.”

Jackie looked at his father. “ Will you buy me another?
The shops aren’t open to-day.” Then getting off his father’s
knee he picked up the toy, and coming back he said, “‘ Could
we mend the boat somehow ? Do you think we could ?”

“ Jackie dear, go away ; leave your father alone. Go into
the next room,” said Mrs. Lewis. Kai

“No, he can stop here; let him be,” said Esther. “I
want to have no more to say to him ; he can look to his father
for the future.” Esther turned on her heel and walked
straight for the door. But dropping his boat with a cry, the
little fellow ran after her and clung to her skirt despairingly.
“No, mummie dear, you mustn’t go; never mind the boat ;
I love you better than the boat—I’ll do without a boat.”

“Esther, Esther, this is all nonsense. Just listen.”

“No, I won’t listen to you. But you shall listen to me.
When I brought you here last week you asked me in the
train what I had been doing all these years. I didn’t answer
you, but I will now. I’ve been in the workhouse.”

“In the workhouse !”

“ Yes, do that surprise you ?”

Then jerking out her words, throwing them at him as if
they were half-bricks, she told him the story of the last eight
years—Queen Charlotte’s Hospital, Mrs. Rivers, Mrs. Spires,
the night on the Embankment, and the workhouse. ‘“‘ And
when I came out of the workhouse I travelled London in
search of sixteen pounds a year wages, which was the least I
could do with, and when I didn’t find them I sat here and ate

222

dry bread. She’ll tell you—she saw it all. I haven't said
nothing about the shame and sneers I had to put up with—
you’d understand nothing about that—and there was more
than one situation I was thrown out of when they found I had
a child. For they didn’t like loose women in their houses ;
I had them very words said about me. And while I was
going through all that you was living in riches with a lady in
foreign parts ; and now when she could put up with you no
longer, and you're kicked out, you come to me and ask for
your share of the child. Share of the child! What share is
yours, I’d like to know ?”

“ Esther !”

“In your mean, underhand way you come here on the sly to
- see if you can’t steal the love of the child from me.”

She could speak no more; her strength was giving way
before the tumult of her passion, and the silence that had
come suddenly into the room was more terrible than her
words. William stood quaking, horrified, wishing the earth
would swallow him; Mrs. Lewis watched Esther’s pale face,
fearing that she would faint; Jackie, his grey eyes open
round, held his broken boat still in his hand. The sense of the
scene had hardly caught on his childish brain; he was very
frightened, and Mrs. Lewis took him in her arms and tried to
soothe him. William tried to speak ; his lips moved, but no
words came.

Mrs. Lewis whispered, ‘‘ You'll get no good out of her
now, her temper’s up; you'd better go. She don’t know
what she’s a-saying of.”

“Tf one of us has to go,” said William, taking the hint,
“there can’t be much doubt which of us.” He stood at
the door holding his hat, just as if he were going to put it
on. Esther stood with her back turned to him. At last he
said :

““ Good-bye, Jackie. I suppose you don’t want to see me
again ?”

For reply Jackie threw his boat away and clung to Mrs.

223
Lewis for protection. William’s face showed that he was
pained by Jackie’s refusal.

“ Try to get your mother to forgive me ; but you are right
to love her best. She’s been a good mother to you.” He
put on his hat and went without another word. No one
spoke, and every moment the silence grew more paralysing.
Jackie examined his broken boat for a moment, and then he
put it away, as if it had ceased to have any interest for him.
There was no chance of going to the Rye that day ; he might
as well take off his velvet suit ; his mother liked him better in
his old clothes.

“You shall have another boat, my darling,” she said,

‘

leaning across the table, “and quite as good as the one I
broke.”

“Will you, mummie? One with three sails, cutter-
rigged, like that ?”

“Yes, dear, you shall have a boat with three sails.”

“And when will you buy me the boat, mummie—to-
morrow ?”

“* As soon as I can, Jackie.”

This promise appeared to satisfy him. Suddenly he
looked : ;

“Ts father coming back no more ?”

“Do you want him back ?”

Jackie hesitated ; his mother pressed him for an answer.

“ Not if you don’t, mummie.”

“ But if he was to give you another boat, one with four
sails ?”

“ They don’t have four sails, not them with one mast.”

“ If he was to give you a boat with two masts, would you
take it ?”

* T should try not to, I should try ever so hard.”

There were tears in Jackie’s voice, and then, as if doubtful
of his power to resist temptation, he buried his face in his
mother’s bosom and sobbed.

“* You shall have another boat, my darling.”

224

“‘T don’t want no boat at all! I love you better than a
boat, mummie, I do.”

‘And what about those clothes? ‘You’d sooner stop with
me and wear those shabby clothes than go to him and wear a
pretty velvet suit ?”

“* You can send back the velvet suit.”

“Can I? My darling, mummie will give you another
velvet suit,” and she embraced the child with all her strength,
and covered him with kisses. -

“But why can’t I wear that velvet suit, and why can’t
father come back? Why don’t you like father? You
shouldn’t be cross with father because he gave me the boat.
He didn’t mean no harm.”

“‘T. think you like your father. You like him better than
me.”

“Not better than you, mummie.”

“You wouldn’t like to have any other father except your
own real father ?”

“How could I have a father that wasn’t my own real
father ?”

Esther did not press the point, and soon after Jackie
began to talk about the possibility of mending his boat ;
and feeling that something irrevocable had happened, Esther
put on her hat and jacket, and Mrs. Lewis and Jackie accom-
panied her to the station. The women kissed each other on
the platform and were reconciled, but there was a vague
sensation of sadness in the leave-taking which neither under-
stood. And a moment after Esther sat alone in a third-class
carriage absorbed in consideration of the problem of her life.
The life she had dreamed would never be hers—somehow she
seemed to know that she would never be Fred’s wife.

She had made up her mind to see William no more, but he
wrote asking how she would like him to contribute towards
the maintenance of the child, and this could not be settled
without personal interviews. Miss Rice and Mrs. Lewis
seemed to take it for granted that she would marry William

225

when he obtained his divorce. He had been toa lawyer about
it, and the lawyer said there would be no difficulty, the
adultery being admitted ; and whenever she saw Jackie he
inquired after his father; he hoped, too, that she had for-
given poor father, who had “‘ never meant no harm at all.”
So everything was working to get her away from Fred, and
she could see that she had done wrong in allowing her feelings
to be overruled by Miss Rice, who had, of course, advised her
for the best. Jackie would never take kindly to Fred as a
stepfather, and would grow to dislike him more and more ;
and when he grew older he would keep away from the house
on account of the presence of his stepfather ; it would end
by his going to live with William, and his being led into a life
of betting and drinking.

CHAPTER XXVII

Ir was one evening as she was putting things away in the
kitchen before going up to bed that she heard someone rap
at the window. Could this be Fred? Her heart was beat-
ing; she must let him in. The area was in darkness; she
could see no one. .

“‘ Who is there ?” she cried.

“It’s only me. I had to see you to-night on——”

She drew an easier breath, and asked him to come in.

William had expected a rougher reception. The tone in
which Esther invited him in was almost one of welcome, and
there was no need of so many excuses; but he had come
prepared with excuses, and a few ran off his tongue before he

was aware.
“ Well,” said Esther, “ itis rather late. I was just going up
to bed; but you can tell me what you’ve come about, if it
won't take long.”
“It won’t take long. I’ve seen my solicitor this afternoon,
and he says that I shall find it very difficult to get a divorce.”’

226

“So you can’t get your divorce ?”

“ Are you glad ?”

“ T don’t know.”

‘What do youmean? You must be either glad or sorry.”

“IT said what I mean. I am not given to telling lies.”
Esther set the large tin candlestick, on which a wick was
spluttering, on the kitchen table, and William ldoked at her
inquiringly. She was always a bit of a mystery to him.
And then he told her, speaking very quickly, how he had
neglected to secure proofs of his wife’s infidelity at the time ;
and, as she had lived a circumspect although a guilty life ever
since, the solicitor thought that it would be difficult to estab-
lish a case against her.

“Perhaps she never was guilty,” said Esther, unable to
restrain the temptation to irritate.

“Not guilty! what do you mean? Haven't I told you
how I found them the day I came up from Ascot? And
didn’t she own up to it? What more proof do you want ?”

“ Anyway, it appears you haven’t enough; what are you
going todo? Wait until you catch her out ?”

“There is nothing else to do, unless William

paused, and his eyes wandered from Esther’s.

“Unless what ?”

“Well, you see, my solicitors have been in communication
with her solicitors, and her solicitors say that if it were the
other way round, that if I gave her reason to go against me
for a divorce, she would be glad of the chance. That’s all
they said at first, but since then I’ve seen my wife, and she
says that if I’ll give her cause to get a divorce she’ll not only
go for it, but will pay all the legal expenses ; it won’t cost us a
penny. What do you think, Esther ?”

“ T don’t know that I understand. You don’t mean a

“You see, Esther, that to get a divorce—there’s no one
who can hear us, is there ?”

“No, there’s no one in the ’ouse except me and the missus,
and she’s in the study reading. Go on.”

227

“It seems that one of the parties must go and live with
another party before either can get a divorce. Do you
understand ?”

“You don’tmean that you want me to go and live with you,
and perhaps get left a second time ?”

“ That’s all rot, Esther, and you know it.”

“ Tf that’s all you’ve got to say to me you'd better take your
hook.”

“Do you see, there’s the child to consider? And you
know well enough, Esther, that you’ve nothing to fear ;
you knows as well as can be that I mean to run straight this
time. So I did before. But let bygones be bygones, and I
know you'd like the child to have a father ; so if only for his
sake——”

“For his sake! I like that; as if I hadn’t done enough
for him. Haven’t I worked and slaved myself to death and
gone about in rags? That’s what that child has cost me.
Tell me what he’s cost you. Not a penny piece—a toy boat
and a suit of velveteen knickerbockers—and yet you come
telling me—lI’d like to know what’s expected of me. Is a
woman never to think of herself? Do I count for nothing ?
For the child’s sake, indeed! Now, if it was anyone else but
you! Just tell me where doI comein? That’s what I want
to know. I’ve played the game long enough. Where do I
come in? That’s what I want to know.”

“ There’s no use flying in a temper, Esther. I know you've
had ahardtime. I know it was all very unlucky from the very
first. But there’s no use saying that you might get left a
second time, for you know well enough that that ain’t true.
Say you won't doit; you're a free woman, you can act as you
please. It would be unjust to ask you to give up anything
more for the child; I agree with you in all that. But don’t
fly in a rage with me because I came to tell you there was no
other way out of the difficulty.”

“You can go and live with another woman, and get a
divorce that way.”

228

“ Yes, I can do that; but I first thought I’d speak to you
on the subject. For if I did go and live with another woman I
couldn’t very well desert her after getting a divorce.”

“You deserted me.”

“Why go back on that old story ?”’

“ It ain’t an old story, it’s the story of my life, and I haven't
come to the end of it yet.” ‘

‘* But you'll have got to the end of it if you'll do what I say.”’

A moment later Esther said :

“TI don’t know what you want to get a divorce for at all.
I daresay your wife would take you back if you were to ask
her.”

* She’s no children, and never will have none, and marriage
is a poor lookout without children—all the worry and anxiety
for nothing. What do we marry for but children? There’s
no other happiness. I’ve tried everything else——”

“ But I haven’t.”

“TI know all that. I know you’ve had a damned hard
time, Esther. I’ve had a good week at Doncaster, and have
enough money to buy my partner out; we shall ’ave the
’ouse to ourselves, and, working together, I don’t think we'll
*ave much difficulty in building it up into a very nice property,
all of which will in time go to the boy. I’m doing pretty well,
I told you, in the betting line, but if you like I'll give it up.
I'll never lay or take the odds again. I can’t say more,
Esther, can I? Come, say yes,” he said, reaching his arm
towards her.

“Don’t touch me,” she said surlily, and drew back a step
with an air of resolution that made him doubt if he would be
able to persuade her.

“Now, Esther. ” William didn’t finish. It seemed
useless to argue with her, and he looked at the great red ash of
the tallow candle.

“You are the mother of my boy, so it is different ; but to
advise me to go and live with another woman! I shouldn’t
have thought it of a religious girl like you.”

229

“Religion! There’s very little time for religion in the
places I’ve had to work in.” Then, thinking of Fred, she
added that she had returned to Christ, and hoped he would
forgive her. William encouraged her to speak of herself,
remarking that, chapel or no chapel, she seemed just as severe
as ever. ‘‘ If you won't, I can only say I am sorry ; but that
shan’t stop me from paying you as much a week as you think
necessary for Jack’s keep and his schooling. I don’t want the
boy to cost you anything. I’d like to do a great deal more for
the boy, but I can’t do more unless you make him my child.”

“ And I can only do that by going away to live with you ?”
The words brought an instinctive look of desire into her eyes.

“‘ In six months we shall be man and wife. . . . Say yes.”

“Tecan’t. I can’t, don’t ask me.”

“You're afraid to trust me, is that it ?”

Esther did not answer.

“ T can make that all right : I’ll settle £500 on you and the
child.”

She looked up: the same look was in her eyes, only
modified, softened by some feeling of tenderness which had
come into her heart.

He put his arm round her; she was leaning against the
table ; he was sitting on the edge.

“You know that I mean to act rightly by you.”

“Yes, I think you do.”

“Then say yes.”

“ T can’t—it is too late.”

“ There’s another chap ?”

She nodded.

“TI thought as much. Do you care for him ?”

She didn’t answer. ;

He drew her closer to him; he could see that she was
weeping, and he kissed her on her neck first, and then on
her face ; and he continued to ask her if she loved the other
chap. At last she signified that she did not.

“Then say yes.” She murmured that she couldn't

230

“You can, you can, you can.” He kissed her, all the while
reiterating, “ You can, you can, you can,” until it became a
sort of parrot cry. Several minutes elapsed, and the candle
began to splutter in its socket. She said:

‘Let me go; let me light the gas.”

As she sought for the matches she caught sight of the
clock. ‘

“* T didn’t know it was so late.”

“* Say yes before I go.”

welican te

And it was impossible to extort a promise from her. “ I’m
too tired,” she said, “ let me go.”’

He took her in his arms and kissed her, and said, ““ My own
little wife.”

_As he went up the area steps she remembered that he had
used the same words before, and tried to think of Fred, but
William’s great square shoulders had come between her and
this meagre little man. She sighed, and felt once again that
her will was overborne by a force which she could not control
or understand.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Sue went round the house bolting and locking the doors,
seeing that everything was made fast for the night, and it
was not till she came to the foot of the stairs that sad thoughts
came upon her, and she drew her hand across her eyes, for she
was whelmed in a sense of sorrow, which she could not under-
stand, which she had not strength to grapple with, and she
was aware that life was proving too strong for her, that she
could make nothing of it, and it seemed to her that she did not
care much what happened to her. She hadn’t even strength
for blame, and merely wondered why she had let William
kiss her. She oughtn’t to have spoken to him; above all,
she ought not to have taken him to see the child.

231

She slept on the same landing as Miss Rice, and was
moved by a sudden impulse to go in and tell her the story
of her trouble. But what good? No one could help her.
She liked Fred: they seemed to suit each other, and she
could have made him a good wife if she hadn’t met William.
She thought of the cottage at Mortlake, and their lives in it ;
and she sought to encourage her liking for him with thoughts
of the meeting-house ; she thought even of the simple black
dress she would wear, and how they’d stand side by side
among the Lord’s people. But if she were to marry William
she’d go to the “ King’s Head,” to stand behind the bar and
serve the customers. She had never seen much life, and felt
somehow that she would like to see a little life ; there would
not be much life in the cottage at Mortlake ; nothing but the
prayer-meeting. She stopped thinking, for she had never
thought like that before, and it seemed as if some other
woman whom she hardly knew was thinking for her. She
seemed like one standing at cross roads, unable to decide
which road she wouldtake. Ifshe took the road leading to the
cottage and the prayer-meeting her life would henceforth be
secure. She could see her life from end to end, even to the
time when Fred would come and sit by her, and hold her hand
as she had seen his father and mother sitting side by side. If
she took the road to the public-house and the racecourse she
did not know what might not happen. But William had
promised to settle £500 on her and Jackie. Her life would be
secure either way.

All the same, she must marry Fred, for she had promised to
marry him; she wished to be a good woman, and he would
give her the life she was most fitted for, the life she had always
desired ; the life of her father and mother, the life of her
childhood. Yes, she would marry Fred in spite of all, only—
something at that moment seemed to take her by the throat—
William had come between her and that life. If she had not
met him at Woodview long ago ; if she had not met him in the
Pembroke Road that night she went to fetch the beer for

Q

232
her mistress’s dinner, how different everything would have
been! If she had met him only a few months later, when she
was Fred’s wife !

Wishing she might go to sleep, and awake the wife of one
or the other, she fell asleep to dream of a husband possessed of
the qualities of both, and a life that was neither all chapel
nor all public-house. But soon the one became two, and
Esther awoke in terror, believing she had married them both.

CHAPTER XXIX

Ir Fred had said, ‘‘ Come away with me,” Esther would have
followed him. But when she called at the shop he only
spoke of his holiday, of the long walks he had taken, and the
religious and political meetings he had attended. To this
talk Esther listened vaguely ; and there was in her mind
unconscious regret that he was not a little different. Little
irrelevant thoughts came upon her. She would like him
better if he wore coloured neckties and a short jacket; she
wished half of him away—his dowdiness, his sandy-coloured
hair, the vague eyes, the black neckties, the long loose
frock-coat. But his voice was keen and ringing, and when
listening her heart always went out to him, and she felt
that she might entrust her life to him. But he didn’t seem
to understand her, and day by day, against her will, the
thought gripped her more and more closely that she could not
separate Jackie from his father. She would have to tell
Fred the whole truth, and he would not understand it ; that
she knew. But it would have to be done, and she sent round
to say she’d like to see him when he left business. Would he
step round about eight o’clock ?

The clock had hardly struck eight when she heard a tap at
the window. She opened the door and he came in, surprised
by the silence with which she received him.

“T hope nothing has happened. Is anything the matter ?”

233

“Yes, a great deal’s the matter. I’m afraid we shall
never be married, Fred, that’s what’s the matter.”

“How's that, Esther? What can prevent us getting
married ?” She didn’t answer, and then he said, ‘“‘ You’ve
not ceased to care for me ?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“ Jackie’s father has come back ?”

“You've hit it, that’s what’s happened.”

“T’m sorry that man has come across you again. I
thought you told me he was married. But, Esther, don’t
keep me in suspense ; what has he done ?”

“Sit down; don’t stand staring at me in that way, and
I'll tell you the story.”

Then in a strained voice, in which there was genuine
suffering, Esther told her story, laying special stress on the
fact that she had done her best to prevent him from seeing
the child.

““T don’t see how you could have forbidden him access to
the child.”

He often used words that Esther did not understand, but,
guessing his meaning, she answered :

“That’s just what the missus said; she argued me into
taking him to see the child. I knew once he’d seen Jackie
there’d be no getting rid of him. I shall never get rid of
him again.” )

“He has no claim upon you. It is just like him, low
blackguard fellow that he is, to come after you, persecuting
you. But don’t you fear; you leave him to me. I'll find a
way of stopping his little game.”

Esther looked at his frail figure.

“You can do nothing ; nobody can do nothing,” she said,
and the tears trembled in her handsome eyes. “ He wants
me to go away and live with him, so that his wife may be able
to divorce him.”

“Wants you to go away and live with him! But surely,
Esther, you do not——”

234

“Yes, he wants me to go and live with him, so that his
wife can get a divorce,” Esther answered, for the suspense
irritated her ; “‘ and how can I refuse to go with him ?”

“ Esther, are you serious? You cannot You told me
that you did not love him, and after all zi He waited for
Esther to speak.

“Yes,” she said, very quickly, “ there is no way out of it

that I can see.”

“Esther, that man has tempted you, and you haven’t
prayed.”

She did not answer.

“TI don’t want to hear more of this,” he said, catching up
his hat. “‘ I shouldn’t have believed it if I had not heard it
‘from your lips : no, not if the whole world had told me. You
are in love with this man, though you may not know it, and
you’ve invented this story as a pretext to throw me over.
Good-bye, Esther.”

“ Fred, dear, listen, hear me out. You'll not go away in
that hasty way. You're the only friend I have. Let me
explain.”

“ Explain ! how can such things be explained ?”

“ That’s what I thought until all this happened tome. I
have suffered dreadful in the last few days. I’ve wept bitter
tears, and I thought of all you said about the ’ome you was
going to give me.” Her sincerity was unmistakable, and
Fred doubted her no longer. “ I’m very fond of you, Fred,
and if things had been different I think I might have made you
a good wife. But it wasn’t to be.”

“‘ Esther, I don’t understand. You need never see this man
again if you don’t wish it.”

“ Nay, nay, things ain’t so easily changed as all that. He’s
the father of my child, he’s got money, and he’ll leave his
money to his child if he’s made Jackie’s father in the eyes of
the law.”

“‘ That can be done without your going to live with him.”

“‘ Not as he wants. I know what he wants; he wants a

235
‘ome, and he won’t be put off with less.”

9

“How men can be so wicked as

“No, you-do him wrong. He ain’t no more wicked than
another ; he’s just one of the ordinary sort—not much better
nor worse. If he’d been a real bad lot it would have been
better for us, for then he’d never have come between us.
You're beginning to understand, Fred, ain’t you? If I don’t
go with him my boy’ll lose everything. He wants a ’ome—a
real ’ome with children, and if he can’t get me he'll go after
another woman.”

“* And are you jealous ?”

“No, Fred. But think if we was to marry. As like as not
I should have children, and they’d be more in your sight than
my boy.”

*“ Esther, I promise that “

“ Just so, Fred; even if you loved him like your own, you

can’t make sure that he’d love you.”

“* Jackie and Di

“ Ah, yes; he’d have liked you well enough if he’d never
seen his father. But he’s so taken to his father, and it would
be worse later on. He’d never be contented in our ’ome.
He’d be always after him, and then I should never see him,
and he would be led away into betting and drink.”

“ Tf his father is that sort of man, the best chance for Jackie
would be to keep him out of his way. If he gets divorced and
marries another woman he will forget all about Jackie.”

“Yes, that might be,” said Esther, and Fred pursued his
advantage. But, interrupting him, Esther said :

“ Anyway, Jackie would lose all his father’s money; the

public-house would——”

“ So you're going to live in a public-house, Esther ?”

“* A woman must be with her husband.”

“But he’s not your husband; he’s another woman’s
husband.”

“‘ He’s to marry me when he gets his divorce.”

‘‘ He may desert you and leave you with another child.”

-

236

“You can’t say nothing I ain’t thought of already. I must
put up with the risk. I suppose it is a part of the punishment
for the first sin. We can’t do wrong without being punished—
at least women can’t. But I thought I’d been punished
enough.”

“‘ The second sin is worse than the first. A married man, >
Esther—you who I thought so religious.” *

“ Ah, religion is easy enough at times, but there is other
times when it don’t seem to fit in with a body’s duty. I may
be wrong, but it seems natural like—he’s the father of my
child.”

“I’m afraid your mind is made up, Esther. Think twice
before it’s too late.”

“ Fred, I can’t help myself—can’t you see that? Don’t
make it harder for me by talking like that.”

“‘ When are you going to him ?”

“ To-night ; he’s waiting for me.”

“Then good-bye, Esther, good. a

“ But you'll come and see us.”

“I hope you'll be happy, Esther, but I don’t think we shall
see much more of each other. You know that I do not

frequent public-houses.”’

“Yes, I know; but you might come and see me in the
morning when we’re doing no business.”

Fred smiled sadly.

“Then you won’t come ?” she said.

“ Good-bye, Esther.”

They shook hands, and he rushed away. She dashed a tear
from her eyes, and went upstairs to her mistress, who had
rung for her.

Miss Rice was in her easy-chair, reading. A long slanting
ray entered the room; the bead curtain glittered, and so
peaceful was the impression that Esther could not but perceive
the contrast between her own troublous life and the contented
privacy of this slender little spinster’s.

“ Well, miss,” she said, “‘ it’s all over. I’ve told him.”

237

““ Have you, Esther ?” said Miss Rice. Her white, delicate
hands fell over the closed volume. She wore two little
colourless rings and a ruby ring which caught the light,

“Yes, miss, I’ve told him all. He seemed a good deal
cut up. I couldn’t help crying myself, for I could have made
him a good wife—I’m sure I could ; but it wasn’t to be.”

“ You've told him you were going off to live with William ?”’

“Yes, miss; there’s nothing like telling the whole truth
while you're about it. I told him I was going off to-night.”

“ He’s a very religious young man ?”

“Yes, miss; he spoke to me about religion, but I told
him I didn’t want Jackie to be a fatherless boy, and to lose
any money he might have a right to. It don’t look right to
go and live with a married man ; but you knows, miss, how I’m
situated, and you knows that I’m only doing it because it
seems for the best.”

“* What did he say to that ?”

“Nothing much, miss, except that I might get left a
second time—and, he wasn’t slow to add, with another child.”’

“ Have you thought of that danger, Esther ?”

“ Yes, miss, I’ve thought of everything ; but thinking don’t
change nothing. Things remain just the same, and you’ve to
chance it in the end—leastways a woman has. Not the likes
of you, miss, but the likes of us.”

“Yes,” said Miss Rice reflectively, “it is always the
woman who is sacrificed.” And her thoughts went back for
a moment to the novel she was writing, so pale and conven-
tional did it seem compared with this rough page torn out of
life.

“ So you’re going to live in a public-house, Esther? You’re
going to-night? I’ve paid you everything I owe you?”

“Yes, miss, you ‘ave; you've been very kind to me,
indeed you ‘ave, miss—I shall never forget you, miss, I’ve
been very happy in your service, and should like nothing
better than to stay on with you.”

* All I can say, Esther, is that you have been a very good

238
servant, and I’m very sorry to part with you. And I hope
you'll remember if things do not turn out as well as you expect
them to, that I shall always be glad to do anything in my
power to help you. You'll always find a friend inme. When
are you going ?”

‘« As soon as my box is packed, miss, and I shall have about
finished by the time the new servant comes in. She’s
expected at nine; there she is, miss—that’s the area bell.
Good-bye, miss.”

Miss Rice held out her hand. Esther took it, and thus
encouraged she said :

“There never was anyone that clear-headed and warm-
hearted as yerself, miss. I may have a lot of trouble, miss.
If I wasn’t yer servant I'd like to kiss you.”

Miss Rice did not answer, and before she was aware,
Esther had taken her in her arms and kissed her. “ You're
not angry with me, miss ; I couldn’t help myself.”

“No, Esther, I’m not angry.”

“* T must go now and let her in.”

Miss Rice walked towards her writing-table, and a sense
of the solitude of her life coming upon her caused her to
burst into tears—one of those moments of sudden effusion
which take women unawares. But her new servant was
coming upstairs. And soon after she heard the cabman’s
feet on the staircase as he went up for Esther’s box, and
Esther begging him to be careful of the paint.

The girl had been a good and faithful servant to her ;
she was sorry to lose her. Esther was sorry that anyone
but herself should have the looking after of that dear, kind
soul. But what could the girl do? She was going to be
married. There would be a parlour behind the bar, in
which she would sit. She would be mistress of the house.
There would be a servant, a potboy, and perhaps a barmaid.
This sudden change of feeling surprised her, and she found
excuses in the recollection that she had striven hard for Fred,
but as she had failed to get him, it was only right that she

239
should think of her husband, and she thought of his stalwart
figure as he walked down the street.

When the cab swerved round the Circus, she was putting
it to herself: “‘ Was she up to conducting a business like the
‘ King’s Head ’ ?”

The black, crooked perspectives of Soho were roofed with
the sunset’s gold. She had never been in this part of London
before ; the adventure stimulated her imagination, and she
wondered where she was going and which of the many
public-houses was hers. But the cabman jingled past every
one. It seemed as if he were never going to pull up. At last
he stopped at the corner of Dean Street and Old Compton
Street, nearly opposite a cab rank. The cabmen were inside,
having a glass; the usual vagrant was outside, looking after
the horses, and when she asked him if he had seen Mr. Latch
he directed her round to the private bar, where she saw William
leaning over the counter deep in talk and the sporting paper
spread out before him.

“Oh, so here you are at last,” said William, coming to-
wards her. “I expected you an hour ago.”

“ The new servant was late, and I couldn’t leave before she
came.”

“Never mind; glad you’ve come. You know John
Randal, or Mr. Leopold, as we used to call him at Woodview.”’

Mr. Leopold shook hands with Esther, and he muttered
a “Glad to see you again.’ But it was the welcome of a
man who regards a woman’s presence as an intrusion, and
Esther understood the quiet contempt with which he looked
at William. ‘ Can’t keep away from them,” his face said for
one brief moment. But William didn’t notice these things.
He asked Esther what she’d take to drink, and Mr. Leopold
looked at his watch and said he must be getting home.

“Try to come round to-morrow night if you’ve an hour to
spare.”

“ Then you don’t think you'll go to Newmarket ?”

“No, I don’t think I shall do much in the betting way

240
this year. But come round to-morrow night if you can;
you'll find me here. I must be here to-morrow night,” he
said, turning to Esther; ‘I'll tell you presently.” The
men had a few more words ; William bade John good night,
and coming back to Esther he said :

“What do you think of the place? Cosy, ain’t it?”
But before she had time to reply, he said : ‘‘ You’ve brought
me good luck. I won two ’undred and fifty pounds to-day,
and the money will come in very ‘andy, for Jim Stevens,
that’s my partner, has agreed to take half the money on
account and a bill of sale for the rest. There he is; I'll
introduce you to him. Jim, come this way, will you ?”

“‘ In a moment, when I’ve finished drawing this ’ere glass of
beer,”’ answered a thick-set, short-limbed man. He was in
his shirt sleeves, and he crossed the bar wiping the beer from
his hands.

“ Let me introduce you to a very particular friend of mine,
Jim, Miss Waters.”

“Very ’appy, I’m sure, to make your acquaintance,” said
Jim, and he extended his fat hand across the counter. “‘ You
and my partner are, I ’ear, going to take this ’ere ’ouse off my
hands. Well, you ought to make a good thing of it. There’s
always room for a ’ouse that supplies good liquor. What can
I hoffer you, madam? Some of our whisky ’as been fourteen
years in bottle; or, being a lady, perhaps you'd like to try
some of our best unsweetened.”

Esther declined, but William said they could not leave
without drinking the health of the house.

“Trish or Scotch, ma’am? Mr. Latch drinks Scotch.”

Seeing that she could not avoid taking something, Esther
decided that she would try the unsweetened. The glasses
were clinked across the counter, and William whispered,
“ This isn’t what we sell to the public ; this is our own special
tipple. You didn’t notice, perhaps, but he took the bottle
from the third row on the left.”

At that moment Esther’s cabman came in and wanted to

241
know if he was to have the box taken down. William said it
had better remain where it was.

“I don’t think I told you I’m not living here ; my partner
has the upper part of the house, but he says he’ll be ready to
turn out at the end of the week. I’m living in lodgings near
Shaftesbury Avenue, so we'd better keep the cab on.”

CHAPTER XXX

Tue “ King’s Head” was a humble place in the old-fashioned
style, the floor some inches lower than the street and the
ceiling hardly more than a couple of feet above the head of a
tallman. There were three bars. The private was in Dean
Street ; a few swells came over from the theatre to call for
brandies and sodas, and Esther served them between the
little shelves of the little mahogany what-not on the counter.
Special customers were asked into the parlour, and the public
bar was inconveniently crowded by a dozen people. It is
true there was a jug-and-bottle entrance, but the “ King’s
Head ” was not an up-to-date public-house, quite the reverse.
It had, however, one thing in its favour—it was a free house,
and William said they had only to go on supplying good stuff,
and trade would be sure to come back to them. The last
lease-holder had done them much harm by systematic
adulteration, and Esther was more anxious than William to
know what loss the books showed. “ You’re never here in the
daytime ; you do not have these empty bars staring you in
the face morning and afternoon,” and then she would tell
him : a dozen pots of beer about dinner-time and a few glasses
of bitter, for there had been a rehearsal over the way—that
was about all.

She envied the painted tiles and brass lamps in the other
public-houses as she returned home after marketing, for she
couldn’t help having a peep as she went by, and she was
weary of sitting behind the bar sewing, waiting for Jackie to

242
come home from school. At last the clock struck five, and
Jackie peeped through the doors, dived under the counter,
and ran into his mother’s arms.

“Well, did you get full marks to-day ?”

“Yes, mummie, I got full marks.”

“ That’s a good boy—and you want your tea ?’

“Yes, mummie; I’m that hungry I could hardly walk
home.”

“Hardly walk home! What, as bad as that ?”

“Yes, mummie. There’s a new shop open in Oxford
Street. The window is all full of boats. Do you think that if
all the favourites were to be beaten for a month, father would
buy me one ?”

“TI thought you was so hungry you couldn’t walk home,
dear?

“ Well, mummie, so I was, but 8

Esther laughed. ‘‘ Well, come this way and have your

9

tea.” She went into the parlour and rang the bell.

““Mummie, may I have buttered toast ?”

“Yes, dear, you may.” .

“And may I go downstairs and help Jane to make it ?”

“Yes, you can do that~too; it will save her the trouble
of coming up. Let me take off your coat—give me your hat ;
now run along, and help Jane to make the toast.”

Esther opened a glass door, curtained with red silk; it
led from the bar to the parlour, a tiny room, hardly larger
than the private bar, holding with difficulty a small round
table, three chairs, and an armchair. She took a cloth from
the cupboard and laid the table for Jackie’s tea, who came up
at her call, telling how many marbles he had won, and at that
moment voices were heard in the bar.

It was William, tall and gaunt, buttoned up in a grey
frock-coat, a pair of field-glasses slung over his shoulders,
returned from Newmarket with his clerk, Fred Blamey, a
feeble, wizen little man, dressed in a shabby tweed suit,
covered with white dust.

243

“ Put that bag down, Teddy, and come and have a drink.”

Esther saw at once that things had not gone well with him.

“Have the favourites been winning ?”

“Yes, every bloody one. Five first favourites straight off
the reel—three yesterday, and two second favourites the day
before. By God, no man can stand up against it. Come,
what'll you have to drink, Teddy ?”

“A little whisky, please, guv’nor.”

The men had their drink. Then William told Teddy to
take his bag upstairs, and he followed Esther into the parlour.
She could see that he had been losing heavily, but she re-
frained from asking questions.

“Now, Jackie, you keep your father company ; tell him
how you got on at school. I’m going downstairs to look after
his dinner.”

“Don’t you mind about my dinner, Esther, don’t you
trouble ; I was thinking of dining at a restaurant. I'll be
back at: nine.”

“ Then I'll see nothing of you. We’ve hardly spoken to one
another this week ; all the day you’re away racing, and in the
evening you're talking to your friends over the bar. We
never have a moment alone.”

“Yes, Esther, I know ; but the truth is, I’m a bit down in
the mouth. I’ve had a very bad week. The favourites has
been winning, and I overlaid my book against Wheatear ; I’d
heard that she was as safe as ’ouses. I’ll meet some pals
down at the ‘ Cri ’; it will cheer me up.”

Seeing how disappointed she was, he hesitated, and asked
what there was for dinner. “ A sole and a nice piece of
steak ; I’m sure you'll like it. I’ve a lot to talk to you about.
Do stop, Bill, to please me.” She was very winning in her
quiet, grave way, so he took her in his arms, kissed her, and
said he would stop, that no one could cook a sole as she could,
that it gave him an appetite to think of it.

“And may I stop with father while you are cooking his
dinner ?” said Jackie.

244,

“Yes, you can do that; but you must go to bed when I
bring it upstairs. I want to talk with father then.”

Jackie seemed quite satisfied with this arrangement, but
when Esther came upstairs with the sole, and was about to
hand him over to Jane, he begged lustily to be allowed to
remain until father had finished his fish. “ It wog’t matter to
you,” he said ; ‘‘ you’ve to go downstairs to fry the steak.”

But when she came up with the steak he was unwilling as
ever to leave. She said he must go to bed, and he knew from
her tone that argument was useless. As a last consolation,
she promised him that she would come upstairs and kiss him
before he went to sleep.

“You will come, won’t you, mummie? I shan’t go to
sleep till you do.” Esther and William both laughed, and
Esther was pleased, for she was still a little jealous of his love
for his father.

“ Come along,” Jackie cried to Jane, and he ran upstairs,
chattering to her about the toys he had seen in Oxford Street.
Charles was lighting the gas. Esther had to go into the bar to
serve some customers, and, when she returned, William was
smoking his pipe, her dinner having had its effect—he had
forgotten his losses, and was willing to tell her the news.
And he had a bit of news for her. He had seen Ginger ;
Ginger had come up as cordial as you like to ask him what
price he was laying.

“ Did he bet with you ?”

“Yes, I laid him ten pounds to five.”

Once more William began to lament his luck. “ You'll
have better luck to-morrow,” she said. ‘“‘ The favourites
can’t go on winning. Tell me about Ginger.”

“There isn’t much to tell. We'd a little chat. He knew
all about the little arrangement, the five hundred, you know,
and laughed heartily. Peggy’s married. I’ve forgotten the
chap’s name.”

“ The one that you kicked downstairs ?”

“No, not him, I can’t think of it. No matter, Ginger

245

remembered you; he wished us luck, took the address, and
said he’d come in to-night to see you if he possibly could. I
don’t think he’s been doing too well lately, if he had he’d been
more stand-offish. I saw Jimmy White—you remember Jim,
the little fellow we used to call the Demon, ’e that won the
Stewards’ Cup on Silver Braid? Didn’t you and ’e ’ave a
tussle together at the end of dinner—the first day you come
down from town ?”

“The second day it was.”

“You're right, it was the second day. The first day I met
you in the avenue I was leaning over the railings having a
smoke, and you come along with a heavy bundle and asked
me the way. I wasn’t in service at that time. Good Lord,
how times does slip by! It seems like yesterday. And
after all those years to meet you as you was going to the
public for a jug of beer, and ’ere we are man and wife sitting
side by side in our own ’ouse.”

She was now in the “ King’s Head ” nearly a year, and had
begun to realise that she had got a good husband long before
they stepped round to the nearest registry office to be married.

Charles opened the door. ‘ Mr. Randal is in the bar, sir,
and would like to have a word with you.”

“ All right,” said William. ‘ Tell him I’m coming into the
bar presently.” Charles withdrew. “I’m afraid,” said
William, lowering his voice, “‘ that the old chap is in a bad
way. He’s been out of a place a long while, and will find it
‘ard to get back again. Once yer begin to age a bit, they
won’t look at you. We’re both well out of that business.”

Mr. Randal sat in his favourite corner by the wall, smoking
hisclay. He wore a large frock-coat, vague in shape, pathetic-
ally respectable. The round hat was greasy round the edges,
brown and dusty on top. The shirt was clean but unstarched,
and the thin throat was tied with an old black silk cravat.
He looked himself, the old servant out of situation—the old
servant who would never be in situation again.

“ Been ’aving an ’ell of a time at Newmarket,” said William :

246
‘‘ favourites romping in one after the other.”

“ T saw that the favourites had been winning. But I know
of something, a rank outsider, for the Leger. I got the letter
this morning. I thought I’d come round and tell yer.”

‘‘ Much obliged, old mate, but it don’t do for me to listen to
such tales; we bookmakers must pay no attention to in-
formation, no matter how correct it may be. Much obliged all
the same. What are you drinking ?”

“T’ve not finished my glass yet.” He tossed off the last
mouthful.

“The same ?” said William.

“Yes, thank you.”

William drew two glasses of porter. “‘ Here’s luck.” The
men nodded, drank, and then William turned to speak to a
group at the other end of the bar. “‘ One moment,” John
said, touching William on the shoulder. “ It is the best tip I
ever had in my life. I ’aven’t forgotten what I owe you, and
if this comes off I’ll be able to pay you all back. Lay the
odds, twenty sovereigns to one against ” Old John
looked round to see that no one was within earshot, then he

leant forward and whispered the horse’s name in William’s ear.
William laughed. “ If you’re so sure about it as all that,” he
said, “ I’d sooner lend you the quid to back the horse else-
where.”

“Will you lend me a quid ?”

“Lend you a quid and five first favourites romping in one
after another !—you must take me for Baron Rothschild.
You think because I’ve a public-house I’m coining money ;
well, I ain’t. It’s cruel the business we do here. You
wouldn’t believe it, and you know that better liquor can’t be
got in the neighbourhood.” Old John listened with the
indifference of a man whose life is absorbed in one passion and
who can interest himself with nothing else. Esther asked him
after Mrs. Randal and his children, but conversation on the
subject was always distasteful to him, and he passed it over
with few words. As soon as Esther moved away he leant

247
forward and whispered: ‘‘ Lay me twelve pounds to ten
shillings. I'll be sure to pay you; there’s a new restaurant
going to open in Oxford Street and I’m going to apply for the
place of head waiter.”

“Yes, but will you get it?” William answered brutally.
He didn’t mean to be unkind, but his nature was as hard and
as plain as a kitchen table. The chin dropped into the
unstarched collar and the old-fashioned necktie, and old John
continued smoking unnoticed by anyone: Esther looked at
him. She saw he was down on his luck, and she remembered
the tall, melancholy, pale-faced woman whom she-had met
weeping by the sea-shore the day that Silver Braid had won
the cup. She wondered what had happened to her, in what
corner she lived, and where was the son that John Randal had
not allowed to enter the Barfield establishment as page-boy,
thinking he would be able to make something better of him
than a servant ?

The regular customers had begun to come in. Esther
greeted them with nods and smiles of recognition. She drew
the beer two glasses at once in her hand, and picked up little
zinc measures, two and four of whisky, and filled them from a
small tap. She usually knew the taste of her customers.
When she made a mistake she muttered “‘stupid,” and Mr.
Ketley was much amused at her forgetting that he always
drank out of the bottle ; he was one of the few who came to
the “ King’s Head ”’ who could afford sixpenny whisky. “I
ought to have known by this time,” she said. “ Well,
mistakes will occur in the best-regulated families,” the little
butterman replied. He was meagre and meek, with a sallow
complexion and blond beard. His pale eyes were anxious,
and his thin, bony hands restless. His general manner was
oppressed, and he frequently raised his hat to wipe his fore-
head, which was high and bald. At his elbow stood Journey-
man, Ketley’s very opposite. A tall, harsh, angular man,
long features, a dingy complexion, and the air of a dismissed
soldier. He held a glass of whisky and water in a hairy hand,

R

248

and bit at the corner of a brown moustache. He wore a
threadbare black frock-coat, and carried a newspaper under his
arm. Ketley and Journeyman held widely different views
regarding the best means of backing horses. Ketley was
preoccupied with dreams and omens ; Journeyman, a clerk in
the parish registry office, studied public form ; he was guided
by it in all his speculations, and paid little heed to the various
rumours always afloat regarding private trials. Public form
he admitted did not always come out right, but if a man had a
headpiece and could remember all the running, public form
was good enough to follow. Racing with Journeyman was a
question of calculation, and great therefore was his contempt
for the weak and smiling Ketley, whom he went for on all
occasions. But Ketley was pluckier than his appearance
indicated, and the duels between the two were a constant
source of amusement in the bar of the “‘ King’s Head.”

NS Well, Herbert, the omen wasn’t altogether up to the mark
this time,” said Journeyman, with a malicious twinkle in his
small brown eyes.

“* No, it was one of them unfortunate accidents.”

“One of them unfortunate accidents,” repeated Journey-
man, derisively ; “‘ what’s accidents to do with them that ’as
to do with the reading of omens? I thought they rose above
such trifles as weights, distances, bad riding. A stone or two
should make no difference if the omen is right.”

Ketley was no way put out by the slight titter that Journey-
man’s retort had produced in the group about the bar. He
drank his whisky and water deliberately, like one, to use a
racing expression, who had been over the course before.

“T’ve ’eard that argument. I know all about it, but it
don’t alter me. Too many strange things occur for me to
think that everything can be calculated with a bit of lead-
pencil in a greasy pocket-book.”’

“What has the grease of my pocket-book to do with it ?”
replied Journeyman, looking round. The company smiled
and nodded. “ You says that signs and omens is above any

249
calculation of weights. Never mind the pocket-book, greasy
or not greasy; you says that these omens is more to be
depended on than the best stable information.”

“T thought that you placed no reliance on stable in-
formation, and that you was guided by the weights that you
calculated in that ’ere pocket-book.”

“ What’s my pocket-book to do with it? You want to see
my pocket-book ; well, here it is, and I'll bet two glasses of
beer that it ain’t greasier than any other pocket-book in this
bar.”

“T don’t see meself what pocket-books, greasy or not
greasy, has to do with it,” said William. ‘‘ Walter put a fair
question to Herbert. The omen didn’t come out right, and
Walter wanted to know why it didn’t come out right.”

“That was it,” said Journeyman.

All eyes were now fixed on Ketley. ‘‘ You want to know
why the omen wasn’t right? I'll tell you—because it was no
omen at all, that’s why. The omens always comes right ; it is
we who aren’t always in the particular state of mind that
allows us to read the omens right.” Journeyman shrugged
his shoulders contemptuously. Ketley looked at him with the
same expression of placid amusement. ‘‘ You’d like me to
explain; well, I will. The omen is always right, but we
aren’t always in the state of mind for the reading of the
omen. You think that ridiculous, Walter : but why should
omens differ from other things? Some days we can get
through our accounts in ’alf the time we can at other times, the
mind being clearer. I asks all present if that isn’t so.”

Ketley had got hold of his audience, and Journeyman’s
remark about closing time only provoked a momentary titter.
Ketley looked long and steadily at Journeyman and then said :
“ Perhaps closing time won’t do no more for your calculation
of weights than for my omens. I know them jokes, we've
heard them afore; but I’m not making jokes; I’m talking
serious.” The company nodded approval. ‘I was saying
there was times when the mind is fresh like the morning.

250
That’s the time for them what ’as got the gift of reading the
omens. It is a sudden light that comes into the mind, and it
points straight as a dart, if there be nothing to stop it. Now
do you understand ?’”” No one had understood, but all felt
that they were on the point of understanding. ‘‘ The whole
thing is in there being nothing to interrupt the light.”

“‘ But you says yourself that yer can’t always read them,”
said Journeyman; “an accident will send you off on the
wrong tack, so it all comes to the same thing, omens or no
omens.”

“* A man will trip over a piece of wire laid across the street,
but that don’t prove he can’t walk, do it, Walter ?”

Walter was unable to say that it did not, and so Ketley
scored another point over his opponent. “ I made a mistake;
I know I did, and if it will help you to understand I'll tell you
how it was made. Three weeks ago I was in this ’ere bar
’aving what I usually takes. It was a bit early ; none of you
fellows had come in. I don’t think it was much after eight.
The governor was away in the north racin’—hadn’t been
home for three or four days ; the missus was beginning to look
a bit lonely.”” Ketley smiled and glanced at Esther, who had
told Charles to serve some customers, and was listening as
intently as the rest. “I'd ’ad a nice bit of supper, and was
just feeling that fresh and clear ’eaded as I was explaining to
you just now is required for the reading, thinking of nothing in
perticler, when suddenly the light came. I remembered a
conversation I ’ad with a chap about American corn. He
wouldn’t ’ear of the Government taxing corn to ’elp the
British farmer. Well, that conversation came back to me as
clear as if the dawn had begun to break. I could see the
bloody corn ; I could pretty well ’ave counted it. I felt there
was an omen about somewhere, and all of a tremble I took up
the paper ; it was lying on the bar just where your hand is,
Walter. But at that moment, just as I was about to cast my
eye down the list of ’orses, a cab comes down the street as ’ard
as it could tear. There was but two or three of us in the bar,

251

and we rushed out—the shafts was broke, ’orse galloping and
kicking, and the cabby ’olding on as ’ard as he could. But it
was no good, it was bound to go, and over it went against the
kerb. The cabby, poor chap, was pretty well shook to pieces ;
his leg was broke, and we’d to ’elp to take him to the hosspital.
Now I asks if it was no more than might be expected that I
should have gone wrong about the omen. Next day, as luck
would have it, I rolled up ’alf a pound of butter in a piece of
paper on which ‘ Cross Roads ’ was written.”

“ But if there had been no accident and you ’ad looked down
the list of ’orses, ’ow do yer know that yer would ’ave spotted
the winner ?”

“What, not Wheatear, and with all that American corn
in my ’ead? Is it likely I’d have missed it ?”

No one answered, and Ketley drank his whisky in the midst
of a most thoughtful silence. At last one of the group said,
and he seemed to express the general mind of the company :

““T don’t know if omens be worth a-following of, but I’m
blowed if ’orses be worth backing if the omens is again
them.”

His neighbour answered: ‘“‘ And they do come wonderful
true occasional. They ’as ’appened to me, and I daresay to
all ere present.” The company nodded. ‘‘ You’ve noticed
how them that knows nothing at all about ’orses—the less
they knows the better their luck—will look down the lot and
spot the winner from pure fancy—the name that catches their
eye as likely.”

“ There’s something in it,” said a corpulent butcher with
huge, pursy, prominent eyes and a portentous stomach. “ I
always held with going to church, and I hold still more with
going to church since I backed Vanity for the Chester Cup. I
was a-falling asleep over the sermon, when suddenly I wakes
up hearing, ‘ Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity,’ ”

Several similar stories were told, and then various systems
for backing horses were discussed. ‘“‘ You don’t believe that
no ’orses is pulled ? ” said Mr. Stack, the porter at Sutherland

252
Mansions, Oxford Street, a large, bluff man, wearing a dark
blue square-cut frock-coat with brass buttons. A curious-look-
ing man, with red-stained skin, dark beady eyes, a scanty
growth of beard, and a loud, assuming voice. “ You don’t
believe that no ’orses is pulled ? ” he reiterated.

“* J didn’t say that no ’orse was never pulled,” said Journey-
man. He stood with his back leaning against the partition,
his long legs stretched out. ‘“‘ If one was really in the know,
then I don’t say nothing about-it ; but who of us is ever really
in the know ?”

“T’m not so sure about that,” said Mr. Stack. ‘“* There’s a
young man in my mansions that ’as a servant ; this servant’s
cousin, a girl in the country, keeps company with one of the
lads in the White House stable. If that ain’t good enough, I
don’t know what is; good enough for my half-crown and
another pint of beer too, Mrs. Latch, if you'll be that kind.”

Esther drew the beer, and old John, who had said nothing
till now, suddenly joined in the conversation. He, too, had
heard of something ; he didn’t know if it was the same as
Stack had heard of ; he didn’t expect it was. It couldn’t very
- well be, ’cause no one knew of this particular horse, not a
soul—not ’alf a dozen people in the world No, he would tell
no one until his money and the stable money was all right.
And he didn’t care for no half-crowns or dollars this time, if he
couldn’t get a sovereign or two on the horse he’d let it alone.
This time he’d be aman ora mouse. Everyone was listening
intently, but old John suddenly assumed an air of mystery and
refused to say another word. The talk worked back whence
it had started, and again the best method of backing horses
was passionately discussed. Interrupting someone whose
theories seemed silly, Journeyman said :

“Let’s ’ear what’s the governor’s opinion; he ought to
know what kind of backer gets the most out of him.”

Even the vagrant who had taken his tankard of porter to the
bench where he could drink and eat what fragments of food he
had collected, came forward, interested to know what kind of

253
backer got most out of the bookmaker.

“Well,” said William, “ I haven’t been making a book as
long as some of them, but since you ask me what I think I tell
you straight. I don’t care a damn whether they backs
according to their judgment, or their dreams, or their fancy.
The cove that follows favourites, or the cove that backs a
jockey’s mount, the cove that makes an occasional bet when he
hears of a good thing, the cove that bets regular, cording to a
system—the cove, yer know, what doubles every time—or the
cove that bets as the mood takes him—them and all the other
coves, too numerous to be mentioned, I’m glad to do business
with. I cries out to one as ’eartily as to another: ‘ The old
firm, the old firm, don’t forget the old firm. . . . What can I
do for you to-day, sir?’ There’s but one sort of cove I can’t
abide.”

“ And he is——”’ said Journeyman.

“He is Mr. George Buff.”

‘ Who’s he ? who’s he ?” asked several ; and the vagrant
caused some amusement by the question, “‘ Do ’e bet on the
course ?””

“* Yes, he do,” said William, “‘ an’ nowhere else. He’s at
every meeting as reg’lar as if he was a bookie himself. I ’ates

toseehisface. I’d be arich man if I’d all the money that man
’as ’ad out of me in the last three years.”

“What should you say was his system?” asked Mr.
Stack.

“‘T don’t know no more than yerselves.”

This admission seemed a little chilling ; for everyone had
thought himself many steps nearer E] Dorado.

“‘ But did you ever notice,” said Mr. Ketley, “ that there
was certain days on which he bet ?”

‘** No, I never noticed that.”

“ Are they outsiders that he backs ?” asked Stack.

“‘ No, only favourites. But what I can’t make out is that
there are times when he won’t touch them; and when he
don’t, nine times out of ten they’re beaten.”

254

** Are the ’orses he backs what you’d call well in ?” said
Journeyman. ;

“ Not always.”

“ Then it must be on information from the stable authori-
ties P”’ said Stack.

“‘ I don’t care,” said William ; “ have it that way if you like,
but I’m glad there ain’t many about like him. I wish he’d
take his custom elsewhere. He gives me the solid hump, he
do.”

“‘ What sort of man should you say he was? ’as he been a
servant, should you say ?”’ asked old John.

“ Tcan’t tell you what heis. Always new suit of clothes and
a heye-glass. Whenever I see that ’ere heye-glass and that
brown beard my heart goes down in my boots. When he
don’t bet he takes no notice, walks past with a far-away look
on his face, as if he didn’t see the people, and he don’t care that
for the ’orses. Knowing he don’t mean no business, I cries to
him, ‘ The best price, Mr. Buff ; two to one on the field, ten to
one bar two or three.’ He just screws up his heye-glass
tighter in his eye and looks at me, smiles, shakes his head, and
‘ goes on. He is a warm ’un; he is just about as ’ot as they
make ’em.”

“ What I can’t make out,” said J ourneyman, “is why
he bets on the course. You say he don’t know nothing
about horses. Why don’t he remain at ‘ome and save the
exes ?”

“ T’ve thought of all that,” said William, “‘ and can’t make
no more out of it than you can yerselves. All we know is that,
divided up between five or six of us, Buff costs not far short of
six “undred a year.”

At that moment a small blond man came into the bar.
Esther knew him at once. It was Ginger. He had hardly
changed at all—a little sallower, a little dryer, a trifle less like
a gentleman.

“Won’t you step round, sir, to the private bar ?” said
William, ‘ You'll be more comfortable.”

255

“ Hardly worth while. I was at the theatre, and I thought
I’d come in and have a look round. I see that you haven’t
forgotten the old horses,” he said, catching sight of the prints
of Silver Braid and Summer’s Dean which William had hung on
the wall. “ That was a great day, wasn’t it? Fifty to one
chance, started at thirty ; and you remember the Gaffer tried
him to win with twenty pound more than he had to carry.
Hullo, John! very glad to see you again ; growing strong and
well, I hope ?”

Esther wondered if he would remember her, and as the
thought passed through her mind he extended his hand across
the bar.

“I ’ope I may have the honour of drinking a glass of
wine with you, sir,” said William. Ginger raised no ob-
jection, and William toid Esther to go downstairs and fetch
up a bottle of champagne.

To meet the celebrated gentleman-rider was a great event
in the lives of Ketley, Journeyman, and Stack. But the talk
was of the Barfield horses, carried on by the merest allusion, so
that Journeyman wearied of it, and said he must be getting
home; the others nodded, finished their glasses, and bade
William good night. As they left a couple of flower-girls with
loose hair, shawls, and trays of flowers, suggestive of street-
faring, came in and ordered four ale, and the same moment
Charles, who had gone through with the ladder to turn out the
street lamp, returned with a light overcoat on his arm which he
said a cove outside wanted to sell him for two and six.

“ Do you know him ?” said William.

“ Yes, Iknowed him. I had to put him out the other night
—Bill Evans, the cove that wears the blue Melton.”

As he spoke a man between thirty and forty came in. A
dark olive skin, black curly hair, picturesque and disreputable,
like a bird of prey in his blue Melton jacket and billycock hat.

“‘ You'd better ’ave the coat,” he said; ‘‘ you won’t better
it ;” and coming into the bar he planked down a penny as if it
were a sovereign. “Glass of porter; nice warm weather,

256
good for the ’arvest. Just come up from the country—a bit
dusty, ain’t I?”

“ Ain’t you the chap,” said William, “ what laid Mr.
Ketley six ’alf-crowns to one against Cross Roads ?”

Charles nodded, and William continued :

“J like your cheek coming into my bar.”

“‘ No harm done, guv’nor ; no one was about ; Wouldn’t ’ave
done it if they had.”

“That'll do,” said William: ‘‘ No, he don’t want the coat.
We likes to know where our things comes from.”

Bill Evans finished his glass. “ Good night, guv’nor ; no
ill feeling.”

The flower-girls laughed ; one offered him a flower. ‘‘ Take
it for love,’ she said, and the three went out together.

‘“T don’t like the looks of that chap,” said William, and
he let go the champagne cork. “ Yer health, sir.” They
raised their glasses, and the conversation turned on next
week’s racing.

“I dunno about next week’s events,” said old John,
“but I’ve heard of something for the Leger—an outsider will
win.”

“ Have you backed it ?”.

“I would if I had the money, but things have been going
very unlucky with me lately. But I’d advise you,
sir, to have a trifle on. It’s the best tip I ’ave had in my
life.”

“ Really !” said Ginger, beginning to feel interested ,
““so I will, and so shall you. I’m damned if you shan’t
have your bit on. Come, what is it? William will lay the
odds. What is it ?”

*‘ Briar Rose, the White House stable, sir.”’

“ Why, I thought that——”

““ No such thing, sir ; Briar Rose’s the one.”

Ginger took up the paper. “ Twenty-five to one Briar
Rose taken.”

““ You see, sir, it was taken.”

257

“Will you lay the price, William—twenty-five half-
sovereigns to one ?”

“Yes, [ll lay it.”

Ginger took a half-sovereign from his pocket and handed it
to the bookmaker.

“I never take money over this bar. You're good for a
thin ’un, sir,” William said, with a smile, as he handed back the
money.

“But I don’t know when I shall see you again,” said
Ginger. “It will be very inconvenient. There’s no one in
the bar.”

“None but the match-seller and them two flower-girls. I -
suppose they don’t matter ?”

Henceforth something to live for. Each morning bringing
news of the horse, and the hours of the afternoon passing
pleasantly, full of thoughts of the evening paper and the
gossip of the bar. A bet on a race brings hope into lives
which otherwise would be hopeless.

CHAPTER XXXI
Never had a Derby excited greater interest. Four hot
favourites, between which the public seemed unable to
choose. Two to one taken and offered against Fly-leaf,
winner of the Two Thousand ; four to one taken and offered
against Signet-ring, who, half trained, had run Fly-leaf to a
head. Four to one against Necklace, the winner of the
Middle Park Plate and the One Thousand. Seven to one
against Dewberry, the brilliant winner of the Newmarket
stakes. The chances of these horses were argued every night
at the “‘ King’s Head.”’ Ketley’s wife used to wear a string of
yellow beads when she was a girl, but she wasn’t certain what
had become of them. Ketley did not wear a signet-ring, and
had never known anyone who did. Dewberries grew on the
river banks, but they were not ripe yet. Fly-leaf, he could

258

not make much of that—not being a reader of books. So
what with one thing and another Ketley didn’t believe in this
‘ere Derby. Journeyman caustically remarked that, omens or
no omens, one horse was bound to win. Why didn’t Herbert
look for an omen among the outsiders? Old John’s ex-
periences led him.to think that the race lay between Fly-leaf
and Signet-ring. He had a great faith in blood} and Signet-
ring came of a more staying stock than did Fly-leaf. “ When
they begin to climb out of the dip Fly-leaf will have had about
enough of it.”” Stack nodded approval. He had five bob on
Dewberry. He didn’t know much about his staying powers,
but all the stable is on him; “ and when I know the stable-
money is right I says, ‘ That’s good enough for me !’ ”

Ginger, who came in occasionally, was very sweet on
Necklace, whom he declared to be the finest mare of the
century. He was listened to with hushed attention, and
there was a death like silence in the bar when he described
how she had won the One Thousand. He wouldn’t have
ridden her quite that way himself; but then what was a
steeplechase-rider’s opinion worth regarding a flat race?
The company demurred, and old John alluded to Ginger’s
magnificent riding when he won the Liverpool on Foxcover,
steadying the horse about sixty yards from home, and bringing
him up with a rush in the last dozen strides, nailing Jim
Sutton, who had persevered all the way on the very post by a
head. Bill Evans, who happened to look in that evening,
said he wouldn’t be surprised to see all the four favourites
bowled out by an outsider. He didn’t suppose the guv’nor
would take him on the nod, but he had a nice watch which
ought to be good for three ten

“ Turn it up, old mate,” said William.

“ Allright, guv’nor, I never presses my goods on them that
don’t want ’em. If there’s any other gentleman who would
like to look at this ’ere timepiece, or a pair of sleeve links,
they’re in for fifteen shillings. I’m a bit short of money, and
having a fancy for a certain outsider, I’ll dispose of the ticket

259
for—what do you say to a thin ’un, Mr. Ketley ?”

“Did you ’ear me speak just now?” William answered
angrily, “ or shall I have to get over the counter ?”

““I suppose, Mrs. Latch, you have seen a great deal of
racing ?”’ said Ginger.

“No, sir. I’ve heafd a great deal about racing, but I never
saw arace run.”

“ How’s that, shouldn’t you care ?”

“You see, my husband has his betting to attend to, and
there’s the house to look after.”

“T never thought of it before,” said William. “ You’ve
never seen a race run, no more you haven’t. Would you care
to come and see the Derby run next week, Esther Pa

“ T think I should.”

At that moment the policeman stopped and looked in.
All eyes went up to the clock, and Esther said: “We shall
lose our licence if ——””

“ If we don’t get out,” said Ginger.

William apologised.

“* The law is the law, sir, for rich and poor alike ; should be
sorry to hurry you, sir, but in these days very little will lose a
man his house. Now, Herbert, finish your drink. No,
Walter, can’t serve any more liquor to-night. Charles, close
the private bar, let no one else in. Now, gentlemen, gentle-
men.”

Old John lit his pipe and'led the way. William held the
door forthem. A few minutes after the house was closed.

A locking of drawers, fastening of doors, putting away
glasses, making things generally tidy, an hour’s work before
bedtime, and then they lighted their candle in the little
parlour and went upstairs.

William flung off his coat. ‘I’m dead beat,” he said,
“and all this to lose——’’ He didn’t finish the sentence.
Esther said :

“You’ve a heavy book on the Derby. Perhaps an out-
sider’ll win.”

260

“T’ope so. But if you’d care to see the race, I think it can
be managed. I shall be busy, but Journeyman or Ketley will
look after you.”

“ T don’t know that I should care to walk about all day with
Journeyman, nor Ketley neither.”

They were both tired, and with an occasional remark they
undressed and got into bed. Esther laid hervhead on the
pillow and closed her eyes.

“ I wonder if there’s anyone going who you'd care for ?”

“T don’t care a bit about it, Bill.” At the end of a long
silence William said :

“ Tt do seem strange that you who has been mixed up in it so
nouch should never have seen a race.”” Esther didn’t answer.
She was falling asleep, and William’s voice was beginning to
sound vague in her ears. Suddenly she felt him give her a
great shove. “ Wake up, old girl, I’ve got it. Why not ask
your old pal, Sarah Tucker, to go with us? I heard John say
she’s out of situation. It'll be a nice treat for her.”’

“Ah. I should like to see Sarah again.”

“You're half asleep.”

“No, I’m not ; you said we might ask Sarah to come to the
Derby with us.”

William regretted that he hadn’t a nice trap to drive them
down But to hire one would run into a deal of money, and he
was afraid it might make him late on the course. Besides,
the road wasn’t what it used to be; everyone goes by train
now ; and they dropped off to sleep talking of how they should
get Sarah’s address.

Three or four days passed, and one morning William
jumped out of bed and said :

“TI think it will be a fine day, Esther.”” He took out his best
suit of clothes, and selected a handsome silk scarf for the
occasion. Esther was a heavy sleeper, and she lay close to the
wall, curled up. Taking no notice of her, William went on
dressing; then he said: ‘Now then, Esther, get up.
Teddy will be here presently to pack up my clothes.”

261

“Ts it time to get up ?”

“ Yes, I'should think it was. For God’s sake, get up.”

She had a new dress for the Derby, one that had been
bought in Tottenham Court Road. A realsummer dress! A
lilac pattern on a white ground, the sleeves and throat and the
white hat tastefully trimmed with lilac and white lace, and a
nice sunshade to match. At that moment a knock came at the
door.

“ All right, Teddy, wait a moment, my wife’s not dressed
yet. Do make haste, Esther.”

Esther stepped into the skirt so as not to ruffle her hair,
and she was buttoning the bodice when little Mr, Blamey
entered.

“ Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but there isn’t no time to lose
if the governor don’t want to lose his place on the ill.”

“Now then, Teddy, make haste, ee the toggery out ;
don’t stand talking.”

The little man spread the Gladstone Fie upon the floor and
took a suit of checks from the chest of drawers, each square of
black and white nearly as large as a sixpence.

“You'll wear the green tie, sir ?’’ William nodded. The .
green tie was a yard of flowing sea-green silk. “‘ I’ve got you
a bunch of yellow flowers, sir; will you wear them now, or
shall I put them in the bag ?”

William glanced at the posy. “ They look a bit loud,” he
said ; “‘ I'll wait till we get on the course ; put them in the
bag.”

The card to be worn in the white hat—‘‘ William Latch,
London,” in gold letters on a green ground—was laid on top.
The boots with soles three inches high went into the box on
which William stood while he halloaed his prices to the crowd.
Then there were the two poles which supported a strip of
white linen, on which was written in gold letters, “* William
Latch, ‘The King’s Head,’ London. Fair prices, prompt
payment.”

It was a grey day, with shafts of sunlight coming through,

262

and as the cab passed over Waterloo Bridge, London, various
embankments and St. Paul’s on one side, wharves and ware-
houses on the other, ‘appeared in grey curves and straight
silhouettes. The pavements were lined with young men—
here and there a girl’s dress was a spot of colour in the grey
morning. At the station they met Journeyman and old
John, but Sarah was nowhere to be found. William said :

“We shall be late ; we shall have to go without her.”

Esther’s face clouded. ‘‘ We can’t go without her; don’t
be so impatient.” At that moment a white muslin was
seen in the distance, and Esther said, “I think that that’s
Sarah.”

“You can chatter in the train—you'll have a whole hour
to talk about each other’s dress; get in, get in.” William
pressed them into a third-class carriage, and there was so
much to say that they didn’t know where to begin.

“It was kind of you to think of me,” said Sarah. “So
you've married, and to him after all !” she added, lowering her
voice.

Esther laughed. “ It do seem strange, don’t it ?”

“You'll tell me all about it,” she said. “I wonder we
didn’t run across one another before.”

Out of the grey station they rolled into the light, the plate-
glass drawing the rays together till they burnt the face and
hands. Now they were speeding alongside of the upper
windows nearly on a level with the red and yellow chimney-
pots. A moment after they were passing by open spaces
filled with cranes, old iron, stacks of railway sleepers, pictorial
advertisements, sky signs, and great gasometers rising round
and black in their iron cages overtopping or nearly the
distant church spires. A train steamed along a hundred-
arched viaduct ; and along a black embankment the other
trains rushed by in a whirl of wheels, bringing thousands of
clerks up from the suburbs to their city toil.

The excursion jogged on, stopping for long intervals before
strips of sordid garden where shirts and pink petticoats were

263
blowing. Little streets ascended the hillsides; no more
trains ; buses, too, had disappeared, and afoot the folk hurried
along the lonely pavements of their suburbs. At Clapham
Junction betting men had crowded the platform; they all
wore grey overcoats with race-glasses slung over their
shoulders. And the train still rolled through the brick
wilderness which old John said was all country forty years ago.

The men puffed at their pipes ; old John’s anecdotes about
the days when he and the Gaffer, in company with all the
great racing men of the day, used to drive down by road, were
listened to with admiration, and just as Esther finished telling
Sarah the circumstances in which she had met Margaret, the
train stopped outside of a little station, and the blue sky, with
its light wispy clouds, became the topic of conversation, old
John not liking the look of those clouds, and the women
glancing at the waterproofs which they carried on their
arms.

They passed bits of common with cows and a stray horse
also a little rural cemetery ; but London suddenly began
again parish after parish, the same blue roofs, the same
tenement houses. The train had passed the first cedar and
the first tennis lawn, and knowing it to be a Derby excursion
the players paused in their play and looked up. Again the
line was blocked ; the train stopped, but it had left London
behind, and the next stoppage was in front of a thick meadow
with a square weather-beaten church showing between the
spreading trees, and all around green corn, with birds flying in
the bright air, and lazy clouds going out, making way for the
endless blue of a long summer’s day.

CHAPTER XXXII

Ir had been arranged that William should don his betting
toggery at the “ Spread Eagle Inn.” It stood at the cross
roads, only a little way from the station—a square house with

s

264

a pillared porch. Even at this early hour the London pil-
grimage was filing by. Horses were drinking in the trough,
their drivers in the bar ; girls in light dresses shared glasses of
beer with young men; but the greater number of vehicles
passed without stopping, anxious to get on the course. And
they went round the turn in long procession, a policeman on a
strong horse occupying the middle of the road. The waggon-
ettes and coaches had red-coated guards, and the ear wearied
of the tooting of long brass horns. Every kind of dingy trap
went by, sometimes drawn by two, sometimes by only one
horse—shays half a century old jingled along; there were
even donkey-carts. Esther and Sarah were astonished at the
number of costers, but old John told them that that was
nothing to what it was fifty years ago. The year that Andover
won, the block began seven or eight miles from Epsom. They
were often half an hour without moving. Such chaffing and
laughing, the coster cracked his joke with the duke: but all
that was done away with now.

“‘ Gracious !” said Esther, when William appeared in his
betting toggery. “I shouldn’t have known you.”

He did seem very wonderful in his checks, green necktie,
yellow flowers, and white hat with its gold inscription,
** William Latch, London.”

“It’s all right,” he said; “ you never saw me before in
these togs—fine, ain’t they? But we're very late. Mr.
North has offered to run me up to the course, but he’s only two
places. Teddy and me must be getting along—but you
needn’t hurry. The races won’t begin for hours yet. It’s
only about a mile—a nice walk. These gentlemen will look
after you. You know where to find me,” he said, turning to
John and Walter. ‘“ You'll look after my wife and Miss
Tucker, won’t you?” and he and Teddy jumped forthright
into a waggonette and drove away.

“ Well, that’s what I calls cheek,” said Sarah. “ Going off
by himself in a waggonette and leaving us to foot it.”

“He must look after his place on the ‘ill or else he’ll do no

265
betting,” said Journeyman. ‘“‘ We’ve plenty of time ; racing
don’t begin till after one.”

Recollections of what the road had once been had loosened
John’s tongue, and he continued his reminiscences of the
great days when Sir Thomas Hayward had laid fifteen thou-
sand to ten thousand three times over against the favourite.
The third bet had been laid at this very spot, but the Duke
wouldn't accept the third bet, saying that the horse was then
being backed on the course at evens. So Sir Thomas had
only lost thirty thousand pounds on the race. Journeyman
was deeply interested in the anecdote ; but Sarah looked at
the old man with a look that said, “ Well, if I’m-to pass the
day with you two I never want to go to the Derby again.
Come on in front,” she whispered to Esther, “ and let them
talk about their racing by themselves.” The way led through
a field ablaze with buttercups ; it passed by a fish-pond into
which three drunkards were gazing. “ Do you hear what
they’re saying about the fish ?” said Sarah.

“Don’t pay no attention to them,” said Esther. “ If you
knew as much about drunkards as I do, you’d want no telling
to give them a wide berth. Isn’t the country lovely? Isn’t
the air soft and warm ?”

“Oh, I don’t want no more country. I’m glad to get back
totown. I wouldn’t take another situation out of London if I
was offered twenty a year.”

“ But look,” said Esther, “‘ at the trees. I’ve hardly been
in the country since I left Woodview, unless you call Dulwich
the country—that’s where Jackie was at nurse.”

The Cockney pilgrimage passed into a pleasant lane over-
hung with chestnut- and laburnum-trees. The spring had been
late, and the white blossoms stood up like candles—the
yellow dropped like tassels, and the streaming sunlight filled
the leaves with tints of pale gold, and their light shadows
patterned the red earth of the pathway. But very soon this
pleasant pathway debouched on a thirsting roadway where
tired horses harnessed to heavy vehicles toiled up a long hill

266

leading to the downs. The trees intercepted the view, and
the blown dust whitened the foliage and the wayside grass,
now in possession of hawker and vagrant. The crowd made
way for the vehicles ; and the young men in blue and grey
trousers, and their girls in white dresses, turned and watched
the four horses bringing along the tall drag crowned with
London fashion, and the unwieldy omnibus, and the brake
filled with fat girls in pink dresses and yellow hats, and the .
spring cart drawn up under a hedge. The cottage gates
were crowded with folk come to see London going to the
Derby. Outhouses had been converted into refreshment
bars, and from these came a smell of beer and oranges ;
farther on there was a lamentable harmonium—a blind
man singing hymns to its accompaniment, and a one-legged
man holding his hat for alms ; and not far away there stood
an earnest-eyed woman offering tracts, warning folk of their
danger, beseeching them to retrace their steps.

At last the trees ceased and they found themselves on the
hilltop in a glare of sunlight, on a space of worn ground where
donkeys were tethered.

“Ts this the Derby ?” said Sarah.

“TI hope you’re not disappointed ?”

“No, dear; but where's all the people—the drags, the
carriages ?”

“We'll see them presently,” said old John, and he volun-
teered some explanations. The white building was the
Grand Stand. The winning-post was a little farther this way.

““ Where do they start ?” said Sarah.

“Over yonder, where you see that clump. They run
through the furze right up to Tattenham Corner.”

A vast crowd swarmed over the opposite hill, and beyond
the crowd the women saw a piece of open downland dotted
with bushes, and rising in gentle incline to a belt of trees
which closed the horizon. ‘‘ Where them trees are, that’s
Tattenham Corner.” The words seemed to fill old John with
enthusiasm, and he described how the horses came round this

267
‘side of the trees. ‘‘ They comes right down that ’ere ‘ill—
there’s the dip—and they finishes opposite to where we is
standing. Yonder, by Barnard’s Ring.”

“ What, all among the people ?” said Sarah.

“ The police will get the people right back up the hill.”

“ That’s where we shall find William,” said Esther.

“ I’m getting a bit peckish ; ain’t you, dear? He’s got the
luncheon-basket. But, lor’, what a lot of people! Look at
that.”

What had attracted Sarah’s attention was a boy walking
through the crowd on a pair of stilts fully eight feet high.
He uttered short warning cries from time to time, held out his
wide trousers and caught pennies in his conical cap. Drags
and carriages continued to arrive. The sweating horses were
unyoked, and grooms and helpers rolled the vehicles into
position along the rails. Lackeys drew forth cases of wine and
provisions, and the flutter of table-cloths had begun to attract
vagrants, itinerant musicians, fortune-tellers, begging children
All these plied their trades round the fashion of grey frock-
coats and silk sunshades. All along the rails rough fellows lay
asleep with their hats over their faces, clay pipes sticking from
under the brims, their brown-red hands upon the grey grass.

Suddenly old John pleaded an appointment; he was to
meet a friend who would give him the very latest news
respecting a certain horse ; and Esther, Sarah, and Journey-
man wandered along the course in search of William. Along
the rails strangely dressed men stood on stools, satchels and
race-glasses slung over their shoulders, great bouquets in their
button-holes. Each stood between two poles on which was
stretched a piece of white-coloured linen, on which was
inscribed their name in large gold letters. Sarah read some of
these names out: ‘“‘ Jack Hooper, Marylebone. All bets
paid.” “Tom Wood’s famous boxing-rooms, Epsom.”
“ James Webster, Commission Agent, London.” And these
betting men bawled the prices from the top of their high stools,
shaking their money-filled satchels to attract custom. ‘“* What

268

can I do for you to-day, sir ?” they shouted when they caught
the eye of any respectably dressed man. “On the Der-by,
on the Der-by, I'll bet the Der-by. To win or a place, to win
or a place, to win or a place—seven to one bar two or three,
seven to one bar two or three. The old firm, the old firm ”—
like so many challenging cocks, each trying to outshrill the
other.

Under the hillside in a quiet hollow had been pitched a large
and commodious tent. Journeyman mentioned that it was
the West London Gospel-tent. He thought the parson
would have it pretty well all to himself, and they stopped
before a van filled with barrels of Watford ales. A barrel had
been taken from the van and placed on a small table ; glasses
of beer were being served to a thirsty crowd ; and all around
were little canvas shelters, whence men shouted, “ ’Com-
modation, ’commodation.”

The sun had risen high, and what clouds remained floated
away like filaments of white cotton. The Grand Stand,
dotted like a ceiling with flies, stood out distinct and harsh
upon a burning plain of blue. The light beat fiercely upon the
booths, the carriages, the vehicles, the “ rings,” the various
stands. The country around was lost in the haze and dazzle
of the sunlight ; but a square mile of downland fluttered with
flags and canvas, and the great mob swelled, and smoked, and
drank, shied sticks at Aunt Sally, and rode wooden horses.
And through this crash of perspiring, shrieking humanity
Journeyman, Esther, and Sarah sought vainly for William.
The form of the ground was lost in the multitude and they
could only tell by the strain in their limbs whether they were
walking up or down hill. Sarah declared herself to be done
up, and it was with difficulty that she was persuaded to
persevere a little longer. At last Journeyman caught sight
of the bookmaker’s square shoulders.

“Well, so here you are. What can I do for you, ladies?
Ten to one bar three or four. Will that suit you ?”

“ The luncheon-basket will suit us a deal better,” said Sarah.

269

At that moment a chap came up jingling two half-crowns in
his hand. “ What price the favourite?’ ‘‘' Two to one,”
cried William. The two half-crowns were dropped into the
satchel, and, thus encouraged, William called out louder than
ever, ‘‘ The old firm, the old firm ; don’t forget the old firm.”
There was a smile on his lips while he halloaed—a cheery,
good-natured smile, which made him popular and brought
him many a customer.

“On the Der-by, on the Der-by, on the Der-by!” All
kinds and conditions of men came to make bets with him ;
custom was brisk ; he could not join the women, who were
busy with the lunch-basket, but he and Teddy.would be
thankful for the biggest drink they could get them. “ Ginger
beer with a drop of whisky in it, that’s about it, Teddy ?”

“Yes, guv’nor, that'll do for me. We're getting pretty
full on Dewberry ; might come down a point, I think.”

“ All right, Teddy. And if you’d cut us a couple each of
strong sandwiches—you can manage a couple, Teddy ?”

“T think I can, guv’nor.”

There was a nice piece of beef in the basket, and Esther cut
several large sandwiches, buttering the bread thickly and
adding plenty of mustard. When she brought them over
William bent down and whispered :

“ My own duck of a wife, there’s no one like her.”

Esther blushed and laughed with pleasure, and every trace
of the resentment for the suffering he had occasioned her
dropped out of her heart. For the first time he was really her
husband ; for the first time she felt that sense of unity in life
which is marriage, and knew henceforth he was the one thing
that she had to live for. |

After luncheon Journeyman, who was making no way with
Sarah, took his leave, pleading that he had some friends to
meet in Barnard’s Ring. They were glad to be rid of him.
Sarah had many a tale to tell; and, while listening to the
matrimonial engagements that had been broken off, Esther
shifted her parasol from time to time to watch her tall, gaunt

270

husband. He shouted the odds, willing to bet against every
horse, distributed tickets to the various folk that crowded
round him, each with his preference, his prejudice, his belief in
omens, in tips, or in the talent and luck of a favourite jockey.
Sarah continued her cursive chatter regarding the places she
had servedin. She felt inclined for a snooze, but was afraid it
would not look well. While hesitating she ceased speaking,
and both women fell asleep under the shade of their parasols.
It was the shallow, glassy sleep of the open air, through which
they divined easily the great blur that was the racecourse.

They could hear William’s voice, and they heard a bell ring
and shouts of “ Here they come!” Then a lull came, and
their perceptions grew a little denser, and when they awoke
the sky was the same burning blue, and the multitude moved
to and fro like puppets.

Sarah was in no better temper after than before her sleep.
“It’s all very well for you,” she said. “ You have your
husband to look after. I’llnever come to the Derby again
without a young man. . . . I’m tired of sitting here, the grass
is roasting. Come for a walk.”

They were two nice-looking English women of the lower
classes, prettily dressed in light gowns with cheap sunshades in
their cotton-gloved hands.. Sarah looked at every young man
with regretful eyes. In such moods acquaintanceships are
made; and she did not allow Esther to shake off Bill Evans,
who, just as if he had never been turned out of the bar of the
“ King’s Head,” came up with his familiar, ““ Good morning,
ma’am—lovely weather for the races.’ Sarah’s sidelong
glances at the blue Melton jacket and the billycock hat
defined her feelings ; Esther held her tongue ; her warning
would not have been heeded ; and soon Bill and Sarah were
engaged in animated talk, and Esther was left to follow them
if she liked.

She walked by Sarah’s side, almost forgotten, till they
passed the mission tent, where Fred was calling upon the folk
to leave the ways of Satan for those of Christ. Bill Evans was

271

about to answer some brutal insult; but seeing that “ the
Christian” knew Esther he checked himself in time, and
seized the opportunity to slip away with Sarah.

“ T didn’t expect to meet you here, Esther.”

“I’m here with my husband. He said a little pleasure

“ This is not innocent pleasure, Esther ;. this is drunkenness
and debauchery. I hope you'll never come again, unless you

»?

come with us,” he said, pointing to some girls dressed as
bookmakers, with Salvation and Perdition written on the
satchels hung round their shoulders. They sought to persuade
the passers-by to come into the tent. “‘ We shall be very glad
to see you,’ they said, and they distributed mock racing cards
on which was inscribed news regarding certain imaginary
racing. “ The Paradise Plate, for all comers,” ‘‘ The Salvation
Stakes, an Eternity of Happiness added.”

Fred repeated his request. “I hope the next time you
come here it will be with us ; you'll strive to collect some of
Christ’s lost sheep.”

* And my husband making a book yonder ?”

An awkward silence intervened, and then he said :

“Won't you come in ? service is going on.”’

In the tent there were some benches, and on a platform a
grey-bearded man with an anxious face spoke of sinners and
redemption. A harmonium began to play a hymn, and,
standing by Fred, Esther sang, joining in the psalm, prayer
being so inherent in her that she felt no sense of incongruity,
and had she been questioned she would have answered that it
did not matter where we are, or what we are doing, we can
always have God in our hearts.

Fred followed her out.

“You haven’t forgotten your religion, I hope ?”

“‘ No, I never could forget that.”

“Then why do I find you in such company? You don’t
come here like us to find sinners.”

“T haven’t forgotten God, but I must do my duty to my
husband. It would be like setting myself up against my

272
husband’s business, and you don’t think I ought to do that ?
A wife that brings discord into the family is not a good wife,
so I’ve often heard.” .

“* You always thought more of your husband than of Christ,
Esther.”

“Zach one must follow Christ as best he can! It would be
wrong of me to set myself against my husband.”

‘‘ So he married you ?” Fred answered bitterly.

“Yes. You thought he’d desert me a second time ; but
he’s been the best of husbands.”

“‘T place little reliance on those who are not with Christ.
His love for you is not of the Spirit. Let us not speak of him.
I loved you very deeply, Esther. I would have brought you
to Christ. . . . But perhaps you'll come to see us sometimes.”

“IT do not forget Christ. He’s always with me, and I
believe you did care forme. I was sorry to break it off; you
knowI was. It was not my fault.”

“* Esther, it was I who loved you.”

“You mustn’t talk like that. I’m a married woman.”

““T mean no harm, Esther. I was only thinking of the
past.”

“You must forget all that... . Good-bye; I’m glad to
have seen you, and that we said a prayer together.”

Fred didn’t answer, and Esther moved away, wondering
where she should find Sarah.

CHAPTER XXXIIT

Tue crowd shouted. She looked where the others looked,
but saw only the burning blue with the white stand marked
upon it. It was crowded like the deck of a sinking vessel,
and Esther wondered at the excitement, the cause of which
was hidden from her. She wandered to the edge of the
crowd until she came to a chalk road where horses and mules
were tethered. A little higher up she entered the crowd

273
again, and came suddenly upon a switchback railway. Full of
laughing and screaming girls, it bumped over a middle hill,
and then rose slowly till it reached the last summit. It was
shot back again into the midst of its fictitious perils, and this
mock voyaging was accomplished to the sound of music from a
puppet orchestra. Bells and drums, a fife and a triangle,
cymbals clashed mechanically, and a little soldier beat the
time. Farther on, under a striped awning, were the wooden
horses. They were arranged so well that they rocked to and
fro, imitating as nearly as possible the action of real horses.
Esther watched the riders. <A blue skirt looked like a riding
habit, and a girl in salmon pink leaned back in her saddle just
as if she had been taught how toride. A girl in a grey jacket
encouraged a girl in white who rode a grey horse. But before
Esther could make out for certain that the man in the blue
Melton jacket was Bill Evans he had passed out of sight, and
she had to wait until his horse came round the second time.

At that moment she caught sight of the red poppies in Sarah’s
hat.

The horses began to slacken speed. They went slower and
slower, then stopped altogether. The riders began to
dismount, and Esther pressed through the bystanders, afraid
that she would not be able to overtake her friends.

“Oh, here you are,” said Sarah. “I thought I never
should find you again. How hot it is!”

“‘ Were you on in that ride? Let’s have another, all three
of us. These three horses.”

Round and round they went, their steeds bobbing nobly up
and down to the sound of fifes, drums and cymbals. They
passed the winning-post many times ; they had to pass it five
times, and the horse that stopped nearest it won the prize. A
long-drawn-out murmur, continuous as the sea, swelled up
from the course—a murmur which at last passed into words :
“‘ Here they come ; blue wins, the favourite’s beat.’’ Esther
paid little attention to these cries; she did not understand
them; they reached her indistinctly and soon died away,

274
absorbed in the strident music that accompanied the circling
horses. These had now begun to slacken speed. . . . They
went slower and slower. Sarah and Bill, who rode side by
side, seemed like winning, but at the last moment they glided
by the winning-post. Esther’s steed stopped in time, and she
was told to choose a china mug from a great heap.

“You've all the luck to-day,” said Bill. “ Hayfield, who
was backed all the winter, broke down a month ago. . . . 2 to
1 against Fly-leaf, 4 to 1 against Signet-ring, 4 to 1 against
Dewberry, 10 to 1 against Vanguard, the winner at 50 to 1
offered. Your husband must have won a little fortune.
Never was there such a day for the bookies.”

Esther said she was very glad , and was undecided which
mug she should choose. At last she saw one on which
“ Jack” was written in gold letters. . . . They visited the
‘peep-shows, and especially liked St. James’s Park with Horse
Guards out on parade; the Spanish bull-fight did not stir
them, and Sarah couldn’t find a single young man to her
taste in the House of Commons. Among the performing
birds they liked best a canary that climbed a ladder. Bill was
attracted by the American strength-testers, and he gave an
exhibition of his muscle, to Sarah’s very great admiration.
They all had some shies at coconuts, and passed by J.
Bilton’s great bowling saloon without visiting it. Once more
the air was filled with the cries of “ Here they come! Here
they come!” Even the ’commodation men left their canvas
shelters and pressed forward inquiring which had won. A
moment after a score of pigeons floated and flew through the
blue air and then departed in different directions, some
making straight for London, others for the blue mysterious
evening that had risen about the downs—the sun-baked
downs strewn with waste paper and covered by tipsy men and
women, a screaming and disordered animality.

““ Well, so you’ve come back at last,” said William. ‘‘ The
favourite was beaten. I suppose you know that a rank
outsider won. But what about this gentleman ?”

275

“Met these ’ere ladies on the ‘ill an’ been showing them
over the course. No offence, I hope, guv’nor ?”

William did not answer, and Bill took leave of Sarah in a
manner that told Esther that they had arranged to meet
again.

“Where did you pick up that bloke ?”

“He came up and spoke to us, and Esther stopped to speak
to the parson.”

“To the parson. What do you mean?”

The circumstance was explained, and William asked them
what they thought of the racing.

“We didn’t see no racing,” said Sarah ; ‘‘ we was on the ’ill
on the wooden ’orses. Esther’s ’orse won. She got a mug ;
show the mug, Esther.”

“So you saw no Derby after all ?” said William.

“Saw no racin’!” said his neighbour ; “ ain’t she won the
cup ?”

The joke was lost on the women, who only perceived that
they were being laughed at.

““ Come up here, Esther,” said William ; “ stand on my box.
The ’orses are just going up the course for the preliminary
canter. And you, Sarah, take Teddy’s place. Teddy, get
down and let the lady up.”

“Yes, guvnor. Come up ’ere, ma’am.”

“* And is those the ’orses?” said Sarah. ‘‘ They do seem
small.”

The ringmen roared. “ Not up to those on the ’ill, ma’am,”’
said one. “ Not such beautiful goers,” said another.

There were two or three false starts, and then, looking
through a multitude of hats, Esther saw five or six thin
greyhound-looking horses. They passed like shadows, flitted
by ; and she was sorry for the poor chestnut that trotted in
among the crowd.

This was the last race. Once more the favourite had been
beaten ; there were no bets to pay, and the bookmakers began
to prepare for departure, leaving their clerks to look after the

276

luggage. Teddy didn’t seem as if he would ever reach the top
of the hill. With Esther and Sarah on either arm, William
struggled with the crowd. It was hard to get through the
block of carriages. Everywhere horses waited with their
harness on, and Sarah was afraid of being bitten or kicked. A
young aristocrat cursed them from the box-seat and the
groom blew a blast as the drag rolled away. It was like the
instinct of departure which takes a vast herd at a certain
moment. The great landscape, half country, half suburb,
glinted beneath the rays of a setting sun; and through the
white dust, and the drought of the warm roads, the brakes and
carriages and every crazy vehicle rolled towards London ;
orange sellers, tract sellers, thieves, vagrants, gipsies, made
for their various quarters—roadside inns, outhouses, hayricks,
hedges, or the railway station. Down the long hill the vast
crowd made its way, humble pedestrians and carriage folk, all
together, as far as the cross roads. At the ‘“‘ Spread Eagle ”’
there would be stoppage for a parting drink, there the book-
makers would change their clothes, and there division would
happen in the crowd—half for the railway station, half for the
London road. It was there that the traditional sports of the
road began. A drag, with a band of exquisites armed with
pea-shooters, peppering on costers who were getting angry,
and threatening to drive over the leaders. A brake with two
poles erected, and hanging on a string quite a line of miniature
chamber-pots. A horse, with his forelegs clothed in a pair of
lady’s drawers—the horse stepping along so absurdly that
Esther and Sarah thought they’d choke with laughter.

At the station William halloaed to old John, whom he
caught sight of on the platform. He had backed the winner—
forty to one about Sultan. It was Ketley who had persuaded
him to risk half a sovereign on the horse. Ketley was at the
Derby ; he had met him on the course, and Ketley had told
him a wonderful story about a packet of Turkish Delight
The omen had come right this time, and Journeyman took a
back seat.

277

“ Say what you like,” said William, “‘ it is damned strange;
and if anyone did find the way of reading them omens there
would be an end of us bookmakers.’ He was only half in
earnest, but he regretted he had not met Ketley. If he had
only had a fiver on the horse—200 to 5 !

At Waterloo they met Ketley, and everyone wanted to
hear from his own lips the story of the packet of Turkish
Delight. So William proposed they should all come up to the
“ King’s Head ” for a drink. The omnibus took them as far as
Piccadilly Circus ; and there the weight of his satchel tempted
William to invite them to dinner regardless of expense.

“Which is the best dinner here?” he asked the
commissionaire.

“The East Room is reckoned the best, sir.’

The fashion of the shaded candles and the little tables,
and the beauty of an open evening bodice and the black-and-
white elegance of the young men at dinner, took the servants
by surprise, and made them feel that they were out of place in
such surroundings. Old John looked like picking up a
napkin and asking at the nearest table if anything was wanted.
Ketley proposed the grill-room, but William, who had had a
glass more than was good for him, declared that he didn’t care
a damn—that he could buy up the whole blooming show.
The head waiter suggested a private room; it was abruptly
declined, and William took up the bill of fare. “ Bisque
soup, what’s that ? You ought to know, John.” John shook
his head. “Ris de veau! That reminds me of when——”
William stopped and looked round to see if his former wife was
in the room. Finally, the head waiter was cautioned to send

them up the best dinner in the place, and allusion being made
to the dust and heat, they inquired their way to the lavatories
for a sluice. Esther and Sarah were away longer than the
men, and stood dismayed at the top of the room till William
called to them at the top of his voice, whereupon the other
guests seemed a little terrified, and the head waiter, to
reassure them, mentioned that it was Derby Day

*

278

William had ordered champagne, but it had not proved to
the taste of anyone, except perhaps of Sarah, whom it rendered
unduly hilarious; nor did the delicate food afford much
satisfaction: the servants played with it, and left it on their
plates ; and it was not until William ordered up the saddle of
mutton and carved it himself that the dinner began to take
hold of the company. Esther and Sarah enjoyed the ices,
and the men stuck to the cheese, a fine Stilton, which was
much appreciated. Coffee no one cared for, and the little
glasses of brandy only served to augment the general tipsiness.
William hiccuped out an order for a bottle of Jameson
eight-year-old; but pipes were not allowed, and cigars
were voted tedious, so they adjourned to the bar, where
they were free to get as drunk as they pleased. William
said, ‘‘ Now let’s ’ear the blo—the bloody omen that put ye
on to Sultan—that blood—packet of Turkish Delight.”

“Most extra—most extraordinary thing I ever heard in
my life. So yer ’ere ?” said Ketley, staring at William and
trying to see him distinctly.

William nodded. ‘‘ How was it? We want to ’ear all
about it. Do hold yer tongue, Sarah. I beg pardon, Ketley
is go—going to tell us about the bloody omen. Thought you’d
like to he—ar, old girl.”

Something was said about a little girl coming home from
school, and a piece of paper on the pavement, but Ketley
could not concentrate his thoughts on the main lines of the
story, and it was lost in various dissertations. But the
company was none the less pleased with it, and willingly
declared that bookmaking was only a game for mugs. Get on
a winner at forty to one, and you could make as much in one
bet as a poor devil of a bookie could in six months, fagging
from racecourse to racecourse. And over the long bar they
drank, argued, and quarrelled, until Esther noticed that
Sarah was looking very pale. Old John was quite helpless ;
Journeyman, who seemed to know what he was doing, very
kindly promised to look after him.

279

Ketley hung on to the commissionaire, intent on persuading
him that he was not drunk. ‘‘ You shee, commissionaire,
thish ish how it ish: when I look drunk I am shober, and
when I look shober I am very drunk. Sho you mushn’t judge
by appearanshes, commissionaire.”’ Sarah felt obliged to step
aside ; and hearing her saying that she felt a little better
when she returned, they stood on the pavement’s edge, a
little puzzled by the brilliancy of the moonlight. Now the
three men who followed out of the bar-room were agreed
regarding the worthlessness of life. ‘‘ All I live for is beer
and women.” The phrase caught on William’s ear, and
he said, “‘ Quite right, old mate,” and held out his hand to
Bill Evans. ‘‘ Beer and women, it always comes round to that
in the end, but we mustn’t let them hear us say it.” Bill
promised to see Sarah safely home. Esther tried to interpose,
but William could not be made to understand, and Sarah and
Bill drove away together in a hansom, Sarah dozing off on his
shoulder, and it was difficult to awaken her. when the cab
stopped before a house whose respectability took Bill by

surprise.

CHAPTER XXXIV

“ Is that you, Sarah ?”

* Yes, it is me.”

“Then come in. How is it that we’ve not seen you all this
time ? What’s the matter ?”

“I’ve been out all night. Bill put me out of doors this
morning, and I’ve been walking about ever since.”

“ Bill put you out of doors? I don’t understand.”

“You know Bill Evans, the man we met on the racecourse,

he day we went tothe Derby. It beganthere. He took me

home after your dinner at the ‘ Criterion,’ and it has been
going on ever since.”

“Good Lord! Tell me about it.”

*

280

And leaning against the partition that separated the bars,
Sarah told how she had left her home and gone to live with
him.

“We got on pretty well at first, but the police was after
him, and we made off to Belgium. There we was very hard
up, and I had to go out on the streets.”

“He made you do that ?”

“He couldn’t starve, could he ?”

The women looked at each other, and then Sarah continued
her story, telling how they had come to London, penniless.
“‘ T think he wants to turn honest,” she said, “ but luck’s been
dead against him. He’s been in work, but he can’t stick to it 5
and now I don’t know what he’s doing—no good, I fancy-
Last night I got anxious and couldn’t sleep, soI sat up. It
was about two when he came in. We had a row and he
dragged me downstairs and he put me out. He said he
never wanted to see my ugly face again. I don’t think I’m
as bad as that; I’ve led a hard life, and am not what I used
to be, but it was he who made me what I am. Oh, it don’t
matter now, it can’t be helped, it is all over with me. I don’t
care what becomes of me, only I thought I’d like to come and
tell you. We was always friends.”

“You mustn’t give way like that, old girl. You must
keep yer pecker up. You're dead beat. You’ve been
walking about all night, no wonder. You must come and
have some breakfast with us.”

“T should like a cup of tea, Esther. I never touches
spirits now. I got over that.”

“Come into the parlour. You'll be better when you've
had breakfast. We'll see what we can do for you.”

“ Oh, Esther, not a word of what I’ve been telling you to
your husband. I don’t want to get Bill into trouble. He’d
kill me. Promise me not to say a word of it. I oughtn’t to.
have told you _I was so tired that I didn’t know what I was
saying.”

Esther called to her servant to bring up the breakfast.

281
“You seem to live pretty well,” said Sarah. Fried fish, a
nice piece of steak, tea and coffee. ‘‘ It must be nice to have
a servant of one’s own. I suppose you're doing pretty well
here.” :

“Yes, pretty well, if it wasn’t for William’s health.”

““What’s the matter? Ain’t he well ?”

“ He’s been very poorly lately. It’s very trying work going
about from racecourse to racecourse, standing in the mud and
wet all day long. He caught a bad cold last winter and was
laid up with inflammation of the lungs ; and I don’t think he
ever quite got over it.”

“ Don’t he go no more to race meetings ?”’

“He hasn’t been to a race meeting since the beginning of
the winter. It was one of them nasty steeplechase meetings
that laid him up.”

“ Do ’e drink ?”

“‘ He’s never drunk, but he takes too much. Spirits don’t
suit him. He thought he could do what he liked, great
strong-built fellow that he is, but he’s found out his
mistake.”

“‘ His betting is all done in London now, I suppose ?”

“Yes,” said Esther, hesitating—“ when he has any to do.
I want him to give it up; but trade is bad in this neighbour-
hood, leastways, with us, and he don’t think we could do
without it.”

“It’s very hard to keep it dark ; someone’s sure to crab it
and bring the police down on you.”

Esther asked Sarah if she’d have some more coffee.
“ Holloa! is that you, Sarah?” It was William. ‘“‘ We
didn’t know what had become of you all this time.” William
noticed that she looked like one in trouble, and poorly dressed ;
and she that his cheeks were thinner. The women told him
the story, interrupting each other and arguing over certain
bets. But the story was riddled out somehow in the end.

“‘ I knew he was a bad lot,”’ William said. ‘I never liked
to see him inside my bar.”

282

“I thought,” said Esther, “ that Sarah might remain here
for a time.”

“ T can’t have that fellow coming round my place.”

“ There’s no fear of his coming after me. He don’t want
to see my ugly face again. Well, let him try to find someone
who will do for him all I have done.”

“The best for you will be to stop here till you get a
situation.”

“* And what about a character ?”

“You needn’t say much about what you’ve been doing this
last three months ; and if questions are asked, you can say
you've been stopping with us. But you mustn’t see that brute
again. If he ever comes into this ’ere bar, I'll give him-a
piece of my mind.”

“Td give him more than a piece of my mind if I
was the man I was a twelvemonth ago,” William said,
and Esther looked at him anxiously.

Sarah threw her eyes over the parlour.

“You seem pretty comfortable here,” she said.

““ Well, some must be down for others to be up.”

And approving this philosophy, or accepting it tacitly,
they told her that what the “‘ King’s Head ” lacked was a
parlour on the ground floor for the use of special customers ;
so William had arranged a room upstairs, where there were
tables in front of the windows and chairs against the walls,
and in the middle of the room a bagatelle board. Would she
like tocome up? And Sarah, while admiring the pictures of
celebrated racehorses that William had hung up, heard from
Esther, principally, that when William forswore racecourses
he had intended to refuse money across the bar and to do all
his betting business in this room. But as his customers
multiplied he found that he could not ask them all upstairs ;
it attracted more attention than to take the money quietly
across the bar. All the same, the room upstairs had proved a
success. A man spent more money if he had a room where he
could sit quietly among his friends than he would seated on a

283

high stool in a public bar, jostled and pushed about ; so it had
come to be considered a sort of club-room ; and a large part of
the neighbourhood trooped up there to read the papers, to
hear and discuss the news. And specially needful it had
proved to J ourneyman and Stack, who were now professional
backers, wandering from daylight to dark from public-house
to public-house, from tobacconist to barber’s shop, in the
search of tips, on the quest of stable information regarding the
health of the horses and their trials, the room at the “ King’s
Head ” always the centre of their operations. Stack was the
inspired tipster, Journeyman the scientific student of public
form, whose prodigious memory enabled him to note an
advantage in the weights which would escape a casual reader ;
he often picked out horses which, if they did not actually win,
nearly always stood at a short price in the betting before therace.

The “ King’s Head ” was crowded during the dinner-hour.
Barbers and their assistants, cabmen, scene-shifters, if there
was an afternoon performance at the theatre, servants out of
situation and servants escaped from their service for an hour,
petty shopkeepers, the many who grow weary of the scant
livelihood that work brings them, came there. Eleven
o'clock! In another hour the bar and the room upstairs
would be crowded. At present the room was empty, and
Journeyman had taken advantage of the quiet time to do a bit
of work at his handicap. All the racing of the last three years
lay within his mind’s range ; he recalled at will every trifling
selling race ; hardly ever was he obliged to refer to the Racing
Calendar. Chimney Sweep had beaten Brick at ten pounds.
Snow Queen had beaten Shoemaker at four pounds, and
Shoemaker had beaten Wanderer at seven pounds. The
problem was further complicated by the suspicion that Brick
was better than Snow Queen over a distance of ground.
Journeyman was undecided. He stroked his short brown
moustache with his thin, hairy hand, and gnawed the end of
his pen. In this moment of barren reflection Stack came into
the room.

284,

“* Still at yer ’andicap, I see,” said Stack. ‘* How does it
work out ?”

“ Pretty well,” said Journeyman. “ But I don’t think it
will be one of my best; there is some pretty hard nuts to
crack.”

“Which are they ?” said Stack. Journeyman‘brightened
up, and he proceeded to lay before Stack’s intelligence what
he termed a “ knotty point in collateral running.”

Stack listened with attention, and, thus encouraged,
Journeyman proceeded to point out certain distributions of
weight which he said seemed to him difficult to beat.

““ Anyone what knows the running would say there wasn’t
a pin to choose between them at the weights. If this was the
real ’andicap, I’d bet drinks all round that fifteen of these
twenty would accept. And that’s more than anyone will be
able to say for Courtney’s ’andicap. The weights will be out
to-morrow ; we shall see what we shall see.”

“ Now, give it a name; ‘alfa pint,” said Stack, ‘“‘ and we'll
go steadily through your ’andicap? You've nothing to do
for the next ’alf-hour,” and when the potboy appeared in
answer to the bell he was told to bring up two half-pints.
Journeyman read out the weights, every now and then
stopping to explain his reasons for what might seem to be
superficial, an unmerited severity, or an undue leniency. It
was not usual for Journeyman to meet with so sympathetic a
listener; he had often been made to feel that his handi-
capping was unnecessary, and he now noticed, and with much
pleasure, that Stack’s attention seemed to increase rather
than to diminish as he approached the end. When he had
finished, Stack said, “I see you’ve given six-seven to Ben
Jonson. Tell me why you did that ?”

“He was a good ’orse once ; he’s broken down and aged ;
he can’t be trained, so six-seven seems just the kind of weight
to throw him in at. You couldn’t give him less, however old
and broken down he may be. He was a good horse when he
won the Great Ebor Grand Cup.”

285

“Do you think if they brought him to the post as fit and
well as he was the day he won the Ebor that he’d win ?”

“* What, fit.and well as he was when he won the Great Ebor,
and with six-seven on his back? He’d walk away with
i ;

“You don’t think any of the three-year-olds would have a
chance with him? A Derby winner with seven stone on his
back might beat him.”

“Yes, but nothing short of that. Even then old Ben
would make a race of it. A nailing good horse once. A
little brown horse about fifteen two, as compact as a leg of
Welsh mutton. But there’s no use in thinking of him.
They’ve been trying for years to train him. Didn’t they used
to get the flesh off him in a Turkish bath? That was Fulton’s
notion. He used to say that it didn’t matter ‘ow you got the
flesh off so long as you got it off. Every pound of flesh off the
lungs is so much wind, he used to say. But the Turkish-
bath trained horses came to the post limp as old rags.
If a ’orse ’asn’t the legs you can’t train him. Every pound of
flesh yer take off must put a pound ’o ’ealthon. They'll do no
good with old Ben, unless they’ve found out a way of growing
on him a pair of new forelegs. The old ones won’t do for my
money.”

“ But do you think that Courtney will take the same view of
his chances as you do—do you think he’ll let him off as easily
as you have ?”

“He can’t give him much more. The ’orse is bound to get
in at seven stone, rather under than over.”

‘‘ I’m glad to ’ear yer say so, for I know you've a headpiece,
and ’as all the running in there.” Stack tapped his forehead.
“ Now, I’d like to ask you if there’s any three-year-olds that
would be likely to interfere with him ?”

“Derby and Leger winners will get from eight stone to
eight stone ten, and three-year-olds ain’t no good over the
Cesarewitch course with more than eight on their backs.”

Surprised at Stack’s silence, Journeyman said :

»

286

“Is there anything up? Have you heard anything
particular about old Ben ?”

Stack bent forward. “‘ Yes, I’ve heard something, and I’m
making inquiries.”

“‘ How did you hear it ?”

Stack drew his chair a little closer. “‘ I’ve beertup at Chalk
Farm, the ‘Yarborough Arms’; you know, where the buses
stop. Bob Barrett does a deal of business up there. He pays
the landlord’s rent for the use of the bar—Wednesdays,
Fridays, and Saturdays is his days. Charley Grove bets there
on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, but it is Bob that does
the biggest part of the business. They say he’s taken as
much as twenty pounds ina morning. You know Bob, a great
big man, eighteen stun if he’s an ounce. He’s a warm ‘un,
can put it on thick.”

“IT know him; he do tell fine stories about the girls ;
he ’as the pick of the neighbourhood, wears a low hat, no
higher than that, with a big brim. I know him. I’ve
heard that he ’as moved up that way. Used at one time to
keep a tobacconist’s shop in Great Portland Street.”

“ That’s ’im,” said Stack. ‘‘ I thought you’d heard of ’im.”

“There ain’t many about that I’ve not heard of. Not
that I likes the man much. There was a girl I knew—she
wouldn’t hear his name mentioned. But he lays fair prices,
and I believe he does a big trade.”

“As a nice ’ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife as
pretty a woman as you could wish to lay eyes on. I’ve seen
her with him at Kempton.”

“You was up there this morning ?”

OV cate

“* It wasn’t Bob Barrett that gave you the tip ?”

“Not likely.” The men laughed, and then Stack said :

“You know Bill Evans? You’ve seen him here, always
wore a blue Melton jacket and billycock hat ; a dark, stout,
good-looking fellow; generally had something to sell, or
pawn-tickets that he would part with for a trifle.”

287

“Yes, I know the fellow. We met him down at Epsom one
Derby Day. Sarah Tucker, a friend of the missus, was dead
gone on him,”

“Yes, she went to live with him. There was a row, and
now, I believe, théy’re together again; they was seen out
walking. They’re friends, anyhow. Bill has been away all
the summer, tramping. A bad lot, but one of them sort
often hears of a good thing.”

“So it was from Bill Evans that you heard it.”

“Yes, it was from Bill. He has just come up from East-
bourne, where he ’as been about on the Downs a great deal.
I don’t know if it was the ’orses he was after, but in the course
of his proceedings he ’eard from a shepherd that Ben Jonson
was doing seven hours’ walking exercise a day. This seemed
to have fetched Billa bit. Seven hours a day walking exercise
did seem a bit odd, and being at the same time after one of the
servants in the training stable—as pretty a bit of goods as he
had ever set eyes on, so Bill says—he thought he’d make an
inquiry or two about all this walking exercise. One of the
lads in the stable is after the girl, too, so Bill found out very
soon all he wanted to know. As you says, the ‘orse is dicky
on ‘is forelegs, that is the reason of all the walking exercise.”

“ And they thinks they can bring him fit to the post and
win the Cesarewitch with him by walking him all day ?”

“T don’t say they don’t gallop him at all; they do gallop
him, but not as much as if his legs was all right.”

“That won’t do. I don’t believe in a ’orse winning the
Cesarewitch that ain’t got four sound legs, and old Ben ain’t
got more than two.”

“‘He’s had a long rest, and they say he is sounder than
ever he was since he won the Great Ebor. They don’t say
he’d stand no galloping, but they don’t want to gallop him
more than’s absolutely necessary on account of the sus-
pensory ligament ; it ain’t the back sinew, but the suspensory
ligament. Their theory is this, that it don’t so much matter
about bringing him quite fit to the post, for he’s sure to stay

*

288

the course ; he’d do that three times over. What they say is
this, that if he gets in with seven stone, and we brings him
well and three parts trained, there ain’t no ’orse in England
that can stand up before him. They’ve got another in the
race, Laurel Leaf, to make the running for him ; it can’t be
too strong for old Ben. You say to yourself that‘he may get
let off with six-seven. If he do there'll be tons of money on
him. He’ll be backed at the post at five to one. Before the
weights come out they'll lay a hundred to one on the field in
any of the big clubs. I wouldn’t mind putting a quid on him
if you'll join me.”

“ Better wait until the weights come out,” said Journey-
man, “ for if it happened to come to Courtney’s ears that old
Ben could be trained he’d clap seven-ten on him without a
moment’s hesitation.”

“You think so ?”’ said Stack.

“‘T do,” said Journeyman.

“ But you agree with me that if he got let off with anything
less than seven stone, and be brought fit, or thereabouts, to the
post, that the race is a moral certainty for him ?”

“* A thousand to a brass farthing.”

“‘ Mind, not a word.” _

“Ts it likely !”

The conversation paused a moment, and then Journeyman
said: “‘ You’ve not seen my ’andicap for the Cambridgeshire.
I wonder what you’d think of that ?”’ Stack said he would be
glad to see it another time, and proposed that they went
downstairs.

“ I’m afraid the police is in,” said Stack, when he opened the
door.

“Then we’d better stop where we are ; I don’t want to be
took to the station.”

They listened for some moments, holding the door ajar.

“Tt ain’t the police,” said Stack, “ but a row about some bet.
Latch had better be careful.”

The cause of the scrimmage was a tall young English

289
workman, whom his comrades were striving to quieten.

“ Leave me alone,” he exclaimed ; “‘ the bet was ten half-
crowns to ones I won't stand being welshed.”

William’s face flushed up. “ Welshed !” he said. ‘‘ No
one speaks in this bar of welshing.” And he would have
sprung over the counter if Esther hadn’t held him back.

“T know what I’m talking about; you let me alone,”
said the young workman, and he struggled out of the
hands of his friends. ‘“‘The bet was ten half-crowns to
one.”

“ Don’t mind what he says, guv’nor.”’

“ Don’t mind what I says!” For a moment it seemed as if
the friends were about to come to blows, but the young man’s
perceptions suddenly clouded, and he said: “ In this blo-ody
bar last Monday. Horse backed in Tattersall’s at twelve to
one taken and offered.”

“He don’t know what he’s talking about; but no one
must accuse me of welshing in this ’ere bar.”

“No offence, guv’nor ; mistakes will occur.”

William sent Teddy upstairs for Monday’s paper, and he
pointed out that eight to one was being asked for the horse on
Monday afternoon at Tattersall’s. Esther and Charles had
been selling beer and spirits as fast as they could draw it,
but the disputed bet caused the company to forget their
glasses.

“‘ Just one more drink,” said the young man. ‘“ Take the
ten half-crowns out in drinks, guv’nor, that’s good enough.
What do you say, guv’nor ?”

“What ten half-crowns?” William answered angrily.
“ Haven’t I shown you that the ’orse was backed at Tatter-
sall’s the day you made the bet at eight to one ?”

“Ten to one, guv’nor.”

“T’ve not time to go on talking. You're interfering with
my business, You must get out of my bar.”

“Who'll put me out ?”

“Charles, go and fetch a policeman.”

*

290

At the word “ policeman” the young man seemed to
recover his wits somewhat, and he answered: “ You'll bring
in no bloody policeman. Fetch a policeman ! and what about
your blooming betting—what will become of that ?” William
looked round to see if there was any in the bar whom he could
not trust. He knew everyone present, and beliewed he could
trust them all. There was but one thing to do, and that was
to put on a bold face and trust to luck. “‘ Now out you go,”
he said, springing over the counter, “ and never you set your
face inside my bar again.” Charles followed the guv’nor over
the counter like lightning, and the drunkard was forced into
the street. ‘‘ He don’t mean no ’arm,” said one of the
friends ; “ he’ll come round to-morrow and apologise for what
he’s said.”

“T don’t want his apology,” said William. ‘‘ No one shall
call me a welsher in my bar. Take your friend away, and
never let me see him in my bar again.”

All of a sudden William was seized with a fit of coughing,
and Esther led him into the parlour, leaving Charles to
attend to the customers. His hand trembled like a leaf, and
she sat by his side holding it. At that moment Mr. Blamey
came in to ask if he should lay one of the young gentlemen
from the tutor’s thirty shillings to ten against the favourite.
Esther said that William could attend to no more customers
that day ; but Mr. Blamey returned ten minutes after to say
that there was quite a number of people in the bar ; should he
refuse to take their money ?

““ Do you know, them all ?” said William.

“ T think so, guv’nor.”

“ Be careful to bet with no one you don’t know; but I’m
so bad I can hardly speak.”

““ Much better send them away,” said Esther.

“Then they'll go somewhere else.”

“It won’t matter ; they'll come back to where they’re sure
of their money.”

“Tm not so certain of that,” William answered, feebly.

291
“T think it will be all right, Teddy ; you'll be very careful.”
“Yes, guv’nor, I’ll keep down the price.”

“CHAPTER XXXV

One afternoon Fred Parsons came into the bar of the “ King’s
Head.” He wore the cap and jersey of the Salvation Army ;
he was now Captain Parsons. The bars were empty. It was
a time when business was slackest. The morning’s betting
was over, the crowd had dispersed, and would not collect again
until the Evening Standard came in. Fred looked round and
rapped with his stick, but nobody answered. William had
gone for a walk, the potman was at work in the backyard, and
Esther was sewing in the parlour; but she had just left the
room. And, unable to make anybody hear, Parsons began to
ask himself if the house was empty and anybody could
come in and drink as much as he pleased without paying for it.

“Oh, it is you, Fred,” and she stood looking at him,
surprised by his uniform. ‘So you are in the Army ?”

“ Yes, I’ve joined up,” he answered ; “ but I was always in
it in spirit from the beginning, as I think you know.”

She wondered what he had come about.

“Ts your husband in?” he asked. “ If he is, I should like
to speak to him.”

“No, my husband is out, and I don’t expect him back for an
hour orso. Can I give him any message ?”

She was on the point of asking him how he was. But there
was something so harsh and formal in his tone and manner that
she refrained. But the idea in her mind must have expressed
itself in her face, for suddenly his manner softened. He
drew a deep breath, and passed his hand across his forehead.
Then, putting aside the involuntary thought, he said :

“ Perhaps it will come through you as well as any other
way. I intended to speak to him myself, but I can explain
the matter better to you. It is about the betting that is

*

292
being carried on here. We mean to put a stop to it. That’s
what I came to tell him. It must be puta stop to. No right-
minded person—it cannot be allowed to go on.”

Esther said nothing; not a change of expression came
upon her grave face. But Fred was agitated. His words
stuck in his throat, and his hands were restless. Esther
raised her calm eyes, and looked at him. His eyes were pale,
restless eyes

* T’ve come to warn you,” he said, “ that the law will be
set in motion. It is very painful for me, but something
must be done.” Esther did not answer, and he said, “ Why
don’t you answer, Esther ?”

“‘ What is there for me to answer? You tell me that you
are going to get up a prosecution against us. I can’t stop you.
I'll tell my husband what you say.”

“This is a very serious matter, Esther.” He had come
into command of his voice, and he spoke with earnest deter-
mination. ‘ If we get a conviction against you for keeping a
betting house, you will not only be heavily fined, but you will
also lose your licence. All we ask is that the betting shall
cease. No,’ he said, interrupting, “don’t deny anything ;
it is quite useless, we know everything. The whole neighbour-
hood is demoralised by this betting ; nothing is thought of but
tips; the day’s racing—that is all they think about—the
evening papers, and the latest information. You don’t know
what harm you’re doing. Every day we hear of some new
misfortune—a home broken up, the mother in the workhouse,
the daughter on the streets, the father in prison, and all on
account of this betting. Oh, Esther, it is horrible ; think of
the harm you're doing.”

Fred Parsons’ high, round forehead, his weak eyes, his
whole face, was expressive of fear and hatred of the evil that a
falsetto voice denounced.

Suddenly he seemed to grow nervous and perplexed again.
Esther was looking at him, and he said: “‘ You don’t answer,
Esther ?”

293

“What would you have me answer ?”

“You used to be a good, religious woman. Do you
remember how we used to speak when we used to go for
walks together, when you were in service in the Avondale
Road? I remember you agreeing with me that much
good could be done by those who were determined to
do it. You seem to have changed very much since those
days.”

For a moment Esther seemed affected by these remem-
brances. Then she said in a low musical voice—

“No, I’ve not changed, Fred, but things has.turned out
different. A woman can’t do the good that she would like to
in the world ; she has to do the good that comes to her to do.
I’ve my husband and my boy to look to. Them’s my good.
At least, that’s how I sees things.”

Fred looked at Esther, and his eyes expressed all the
admiration and love that he felt for her character. ‘‘ One
owes a great deal,” he said, ‘‘ to those who are near to one,
but not everything; even for their sakes one should not
do wrong to others, and you must see that you are doing a
great wrong to your fellow-creatures by keeping on this
betting. Public-houses are bad enough, but when it comes
to gambling as well as drink, there’s nothing for us to do but to
put the law in motion. Look you, Esther, there isn’t a shop-
boy earning eighteen shillings a week that hasn’t been round
here to put his half-crown on some horse. This house is the
immoral centre of the neighbourhood. No one’s money is
refused. The boy that pawned his father’s watch to back a
horse went to the ‘ King’s Head’ to put his money on. His
father forgave him again and again. Then the boy stole
from the lodgers. There was an old woman of seventy-five
who got nine shillings a week for looking after some offices ;
he had half a crown off her. Then the father told the magis-
trate that he could do nothing with him since he had taken to
betting on horse-races. The boy is fourteen. Is it not
shocking? It cannot be allowed to go on. We have deter-

294
mined to put a stop to it. That’s what I came to tell your
husband.” .

“« Are you sure,” said Esther, and she bit her lips while she
spoke, “ that it is only on account of the neighbourhood that
you want to get up the prosecution ?”

“You don’t think there’s any other reason, Esther? You
surely don’t think that I’m doing this because—because he
took you away from me ?”

Esther didn’t answer. And then Fred said, and there
was pain and pathos in his voice, “ I am sorry you think this of
me ; I’m not getting up the prosecution. I couldn’t prevent
the law being put in motion against you even if I wanted
to. . . . Ionly know that it is going to be put in motion, so for
the sake of old times I would save you from harm if I could.
I came round to tell you if you did not put a stop to the
betting you’d get into trouble. I have no right to do what
I have done, but I’d do anything to save you and yours from
harm.”

“Tam sorry for what I said. It was very good of you.”

“We have not any proofs as yet; we know, of course,
all about the betting, but we must have sworn testimony
before the law can be set in motion, so you'll be quite safe
if you can persuade your husband to give it up.” Esther did
not answer. “It is entirely on account of the friendship I
feel for you that made me come to warn you of the danger.
You don’t bear me any ill will, Esther, I hope ?”

“No, Fred, I don’t. Ithink I understand.” The conversa-
tion paused again. ‘“‘I suppose we have said everything.”
Esther turned her face from him. Fred looked at her, and
though her eyes were averted from him she could see that he
loved her. In another moment he was gone. In her plain
and ignorant way she thought on the romance of destiny.
For if she had married Fred her life would have been quite
different. She would have led the life that she wished to
lead, but she had married William and—well, she must do the
best she could. If Fred, or Fred’s friends, got the police to

295

prosecute them for betting, they would, as he said, not only
have to pay a heavy fine, but would probably lose their
licence. Then what would they do? William had not
health to go about from racecourse to racecourse as he used to.
He had lost a lot of money in the last six fhonths ; Jack was at
school—they must think of Jack. The thought of their
danger lay on her heart all that evening. But she had had no
opportunity of speaking to William alone, she had to wait
until they were in their room. Then, as she untied the
strings of her petticoats, she said :

“T had a visit from Fred Parsons this afternoon.”

“ That’s the fellow you were engaged to marry. Is he after
you still P”

“No, he came to speak to me about the betting.”

“* About the betting—what is it to do with him ?”

“He says that if it isn’t stopped that we shall be
prosecuted.”

“So he came here to tell you that, did he? I wish I had
been in the bar.”

“Tm glad you wasn’t. What good could you have done ?
To have a row and make things worse !”

William lit his pipe and unlaced his boots. Esther slipped
on her night-dress and got into a large brass bedstead,
without curtains. On the chest of drawers Esther had
placed the books her mother had given her, and William
had hung some sporting prints on the walls. He took his
night-shirt from the pillow and put it on without removing his
pipe from his mouth. He always finished his pipe in
bed, .

“Tt is revenge,” he said, pulling the bedclothes up to
his chin, ‘‘ because I got you away from him.”

“I don’t think it is that ; I did think so at first, and I said

?

so.
“‘ What did he say ?”
‘He said he was sorry I thought so badly of him; that
he came to warn us of our danger. If he had wanted to do us

U

296
an injury he wouldn’t have said nothing about it. Don’t you
think so ?”

“It seems reasonable. Then what do you think they’re
doing it for ?”

“ He says that keeping a betting house is corruption in the
neighbourhood.” —

“You think he thinks that ?”

“‘T know he do; and there is many like him. I come of
them that thinks like that, so I know. Betting and drink is
what my folk, the Brethren, holds as most evil.”

** But you've forgot all about them Brethren ?”

‘No, one never forgets what one’s brought up in.”

“But what do you think now ?”

“ T’ve never said nothing about it. I don’t believe in a wife

‘

interfering with her husband; and business was that bad,
and your ’ealth ’asn’t been the same since them colds you
caught standing about in them betting rings, so I don’t see
how you could help it. But now that business is beginning to
come back to us, it might be as well to give up the betting.”
“Tt is the betting that brings the business ; we shouldn't
take five pounds a week was it not for the betting. What’s
the difference between betting on the course and betting in the
bar? No one says nothing against it on the course; the
police is there, and they goes after the welshers and persecutes
them. Then the betting that’s done at Tattersall’s and the
Albert Club, what is the difference? The Stock Exchange,
too, where thousands and thousands is betted every day. It
is the old story—one law for the rich and another for the poor.
Why shouldn’t the poor man ’ave his ’alf-crown’s worth of
excitement ? The rich man can have his thousand pounds’
worth whenever he pleases. The same with the public-
“ouses—there’s a lot of hypocritical folk that is for docking the
poor man of his beer, but there’s no one that’s for interfering
with them that drink champagne in the clubs. It’s all
bloody rot, and it makes me sick when I think of it. Them
hypocritical folk. Betting! Isn’t everything betting ? How

207

can they put down betting? Hasn’t it been going on since
the world began? Rot, says I! They can just ruin a poor
devil like me, and that’s about all. We are ruined, and the
rich goes scot-free. Hypocritical, mealy-mouthed lot. ‘ Let’s
say our prayers and sand the sugar’; that’s about it. I
hate them that is always prating about religion. When I hears
too much religion going about I says now’s the time to look
into their accounts.”

William leaned out of bed to light his pipe from the candle
on the night-table.

“There’s good people in the world, people that never
thinks but of doing good, and do not live for pleasure.”’

“* All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,’ Esther.
Their only pleasure is a bet. When they’ve one on they’ve
something to look forward to ; whether they win or lose they
‘as their money’s worth. You know what I say is true;
you ve seen them, how they look forward to the evening paper
to see how the ’oss is going on in betting. Man can’t live
without hope. It is their only hope, and I says no one has a
right to take it from them,”

“What about their poor wives? Very little good their
betting is to them. It’s all very well to talk like that,
William, but you know that a great deal of mischief comes of
betting ; you know that once they think of it and nothing
else, they neglect their work. Stack ’as lost his place as
porter ; and there’s Journeyman, too, he’s out of work.”

“And a good thing for them; they’ve done a great deal
better since they chucked it.”

“ For the time, maybe ; but who says it will goon? Look
at old John; he’s going about in rags; and his poor wife,
she was in here the other night, a terrible life she’s ’ad of it.
You says that no ’arm comes of it. What about that boy that
was ’ad up the other day, and said that it was all through
betting ? He began by pawning his father’s watch. It was
here that he made the first bet. You won’t tell me that it is
right to bet with bits of boys like that.”

298

“ The horse he backed with me won.”

‘So much the worse.’ The boy’ll never do another honest
day’s work as long as he lives. When they win, they ’as a
drink for luck ; when they loses, they ’as a drink to cheer
them up.”

“I’m afraid, Esther, you ought to have married the other
chap. He’d have given you the life that you'd’ have been
happy in. This public-’ouse ain’t suited to you.”

Esther turned round and her eyes met her husband’s.
There was a strange remoteness in his look, and they seemed
very far from each other.

“I was brought up to think so differently,” she said, her
thoughts going back to her early years in the little southern
seaside home. “I suppose this betting and drinking will
always seem to me sinful and wicked. I should ’ave liked
quite a different kind of life, but we don’t choose our lives, we
just makes the best of them. You was the father of my child, ©
and it all dates from that.”

““T suppose it do.”

William lay on his back, and blew the smoke swiftly from his
mouth.

““ If you smoke much more we shan’t be able to breathe in
this room.”

“T won’t smoke no more. Shall I blow the candle out ?”

“ Yes, if you like.”

When the room was in darkness, just before they settled
their faces on the pillow for sleep, William said—

“It was good of that fellow to come and warn us. I must
be very careful for the future with whom I bet.”

CHAPTER XXXVI

On Sunday, as soon as dinner was over, Esther had intended to
go to East Dulwich to see Mrs. Lewis. But, as she closed the
door behind her, she saw Sarah coming up the street.

299

“ Ah, I see you’re going out.”

“Tt don’t matter ; won’t you come in, if it’s only for a
minute ?”

“No, thank you, I won’t keep you. But which way are you
going? We might go a little way together.”

They walked down Waterloo Place and along Pall Mall.
In Trafalgar Square there was a demonstration, and Sarah
lingered in the crowd so long that when they arrived at
Charing Cross, Esther found that she could not get to Ludgate
Hill in time to catch her train, so they went into the Embank-
ment Gardens. It had been raining, and the women wiped
the seats with their handkerchiefs before sitting down.
There was no fashion to interest them, and the band sounded
foolish in the void of the grey London Sunday. Sarah’s
chatter was equally irrelevant, and Esther wondered how
Sarah could talk so much about nothing, and regretted her
visit to East Dulwich more and more. Suddenly Bill’s name
came into the conversation.

“ But I thought you didn’t see him any more ; you promised
us you wouldn’t.”

“T couldn’t help it. It was quite an accident. One day,
coming back from church with Annie—that’s the new house-
maid—he came up and spoke to us.”

““ What did he say ?”

“He said, ‘How are ye? Who'd thought of meeting
you!”

“* And what did you say ?”

“T said I didn’t want to have nothing to do with him.
Annie walked on, and then he said he was very sorry,
that it was bad luck that drove him to it.”

“‘ And you believed him ?”

“‘T daresay it is very foolish of me. But a woman can’t
help herself. Did you ever really care for a man ?”

And without waiting for an answer, Sarah continued her
babbling chatter, mentioning incidentally that he had been
away in the country and had come back with very particular

300
information regarding a certain horse for the Cesarewitch.
If the horse won he’d be all right.

At last Esther’s patience was tired out.

“It must be getting late,” she said, looking towards where
the sun was setting. A faint haze rose, softening the edges of
the warehouses ; a,wind, too, had come up with the tide, and
the women shivered as they passed under the arch of Waterloo
Bridge. They ascended a flight of high steps and walked
through a passage into the Strand.

“I was miserable enough with him; we used to have
hardly anything to eat; but I’m more miserable away from
him. Esther, I know you'll laugh at me, but I’m that heart-
broken. I can’t live without him. Id do anything for
him.”

‘* He isn’t worth it.”

“That don’t make no difference. You don’t know what
love is ; no woman does who hasn’t loved a man who don’t love
her We used to live near here. Do you mind coming up

‘Drury Lane? I should like to show you the house.”

“ Tm afraid it will be out of our way.”

“No, it won’t. Round by the church and up Newcastle
Street. . . . Look, there’s a shop we used to go to some-
times. I’ve eaten many a good sausage and onions in there,
and that’s a pub where we often used to go for a drink.”

The courts and alleys had vomited their population into
the lane. Fat girls clad in shawls sat round the slum opening
nursing their babies. Old women crouched in decrepit door-
ways, fumbling their aprons; skipping ropes whirled in the
roadway. A little higher up a vendor of cheap ices had set up
his store and was rapidly absorbing all the pennies of the
neighbourhood. Esther and Sarah turned into a dilapidated
court, where a hag argued the price of trotters with a family
leaning one over the other out of a second-floor window.

“ That’s where we used to live,” said Sarah, pointing up to
the third floor. ‘I fancy our house will soon come down.
When I see the old place it all comes back tome. I remember

301
pawning a dress over the way in the lane ; they would only
lend me a shilling on it. And you see that shop—the shutters
is up, it being Sunday ; it is a sort of butcher’s, cheap meat,
livers and lights, trotters, and such-like. I bought a bullock’s
heart there, and stewed it down with some potatoes ; we did
enjoy it, I can tell you.”

They made their way out into Catherine Street, and then
to Endell Street, and then, going round to St. Giles’ Church,
they plunged into the labyrinth of Soho.

“Tm afraid I’m tiring you. I don’t see what interest all
this can be to you.”

“We've known each other a long time.”

Sarah looked at her, and then, unable to resist the tempta-
tion, she continued her narrative—Bill had said this, she had
said that, and she rattled on, until they came to the corner of
Old Compton Street, where Esther, who was a little tired of
her, held out her hand. “I suppose you must be getting
back ; would you like a drop of something ?”

“ It is going on for seven o’clock ; but since you’re that kind
I think I’d like a glass of beer.”

“ Do you listen much to the betting talk here of an even-
ing ?” Sarah asked, as she was leaving.

“T don’t pay much attention, but I can’t help hearing a
good deal.”

“Do they talk much about Ben Jonson for the Cesare-
witch ?”

“ They do, indeed ; he’s all the go.”

Sarah’s face brightened perceptibly, and Esther said :

“* Have you backed him ?”

“Only a trifle; half a crown that a friend put me on
Do they say he’ll win ?”

“ They say that if he don’t break down he’ll win by ‘alfa
mile ; it all depends on his leg.”

“Is he coming on in the betting ?”

“Yes, I believe they’re now taking 12 to 1 about him.
But I'll ask William, if you like.”

302 '
« No, no ; I only wanted to know if you’d heard anything

new.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Durina the next fortnight Sarah came several times to
the ‘“‘ King’s Head.”’ She came in about nine in the evening,
and stayed for half an hour or more. The object of her visit
was to see Esther, but she declined to come into the private
bar, where they would have chatted comfortably, and re-
mained in the public bar listening to the men’s conversation,
listening and nodding while old John explained the horse’s
staying power to her. On the following evening all her
interest was in Ketley. She wanted to know if anything had
happened that might be considered as anomen. She said she
had dreamed about the race, but her dream was only a lot of
foolish rubbish without head or tail. Ketley argued earnestly
against this view of a serious subject, and in the hope of
convincing her of her error offered to walk as far as Oxford
Street with her and put her into her bus. But on the
following evening all her interest was centred in Mr. Journey-
man, who declared that he could prove that according to the
weight it seemed to him to look more and more like a certainty.
He had let the horse in at six stone ten pounds; the
official handicapper had only given him six stone seven
pounds.

“They is a-sending of him along this week, and if the
leg don’t go it is a hundred pound to a brass farthing on the
old horse.”

“ How many times will they gallop him ?” Sarah asked.

“ He goes a mile and a ’arf every day now. The day after
to-morrow they'll try him, just to see that he hasn’t lost his
turn of speed, and if he don’t break down in the trial you can
take it from me that it will be all right.”

“ When will you know the result of the trial ?”

303

“I expect a letter on Friday morning,” said Stack. “ If
you come in in the evening Ill let you know about it.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Stack. I must be getting
home now.”

“I’m going your way, Miss Tucker. If you like we'll
go together, and I’ll tell you,” he whispered, “ all about the
’orse.”

When they had left the bar the conversation turned on
racing as an occupation for women.

“ Fancy my wife making a book on the course. I bet she’d
overlay it and then turn round and back the favourite at a
shorter price than she’d been laying.”

“T don’t know that we should be any foolisher than you,”
said Esther; “don’t you never go and overlay your book ?
What about Syntax and the ’orse you told me about last
week ?”

William had been heavily hit last week through over-
laying his book against a horse he didn’t believe in, and the
whole bar joined in the laugh against him. .

“T don’t say nothing about bookmaking,’
man; “ but there’s a great many women nowadays who is
mighty sharp at spotting a ’orse that the handicapper had let
in pretty easy.”

“ This one,” said Ketley, jerking his thumb in the direction
that Stack and Sarah had gone, “ seems to ’ave got hold of
something.”

“We must ask Stack when he comes back,” and Journey-
man winked at William.

“Women do get that excited over trifles,” old John re-
marked, sarcastically. “ She ain’t got above ‘alf a crown on the
’orse, if that. She don’t care about the ’orse or the race—no
woman ever did; it’s all about some sweetheart that’s been

said Journey-

piling it on.”
“I wonder if you're right,” said Esther, reflectively.
“TI never knew her before to take such an interest in a

horse-race.”

304

On the day of the race Sarah came into the private bar about
three o’clock. The news was not yet in.

“ Wouldn’t you like to step into the parlour ; you'll be more
comfortable ?’’ said Esther. :

“No thank you, dear ; it is not worth while. I thought I'd
like to know which won, that’s all.”

“Have you much on ?” ‘

“ No, five shillings altogether. But a friend of mine stands
to win a good bit. I see you’ve got a new dress, dear. When
did you get it ?”

“ T’ve had the stuff by me some time. I only had it made
up last month. Do you like it ?”

Sarah answered that she thought it very pretty. But
Esther could see that she was thinking of something quite
different.

“The race is over now. It’s run at half past two.”

“Yes, but they’re never quite punctual; there may be
a delay at the post.”

“ T see you know all about it.”

“You never hears of anything else.”

Esther asked Sarah when her people came back to town,
and was surprised at the change of expression that the
question brought to her friend’s face.

“ They're expected back to-morrow,” she said. “ Why
do you ask ?”

“Oh, nothing ; something to say, that’s all.” And the
two women looked at each other. At that moment a voice
coming rapidly towards them was heard calling, ‘‘ Win-ner,
win-ner !”

“ Pll send out for the paper,” said Esther.

“No, no. Suppose he shouldn’t have won ?”

“ Well, it won’t make any difference.”

“Oh, Esther, no; someone will come in and tell us.
The race can’t be over yet; itis a long race, and takes some
time to run.”

By this time the boy was far away, and fainter and fainter

305
the terrible word, “ Win-ner, win-ner, win-ner.”

“It’s too late now,” said Sarah; ‘‘ someone’ll come in
presently and tell us about it. I daresay it ain’t the paper at
all, Them boys cries out anything that will sell.”

“ Win-ner, win-ner.” The voice was coming towards them.

“ If he has won, Bill and I is to marry, Somehow I feel as if
he hasn’t.”

“ Win-ner.”

“We shall soon know.” Esther took a halfpenny from
the till.

“ Don’t you think we'd better wait? It can’t be printed in
the papers, not the true account, and if it was wron, ~
Esther didn’t answer; she gave Charles the halfpenny ;
he went out, and in a few minutes came back with the paper
in his hand. “Tornado first, Ben Jonson second, Wood-
craft third,” he read out. ‘“‘ That’s a good thing for the
guv nor. There was very few what backed Tornado. He’s
only lost some place-money.”

“So he was only second,” said Sarah, turning deadly pale.
“ They said he was certain to win.”

“TI hope you’ve not lost much,” said Esther. “ It wasn’t
with William that you backed him.”

“No, it wasn’t with William. I only had a few shillings on.
It don’t matter. Let me have a drink.”

“ What will you have ?”

“* Some whisky.”

Sarah drank it neat. Esther looked at her doubtfully.

The bars would be empty for the next two hours ; Esther
wished to utilise this time ; she had some shopping to do,
and asked Sarah to come with her. But Sarah complained of
being tired, and said she would see her when she came
back.

Esther went out perplexed, and was detained longer than
she expected. When she returned Sarah was staggering
about in the bar-room, asking Charles for one more drink.

“ All bloody rot; who says I’m drunk? I ain’t. Look

306
atme. The ’orse didn’t win, did he? I say he did; papers
all so much bloody rot.”

** Oh, Sarah, what is' this ?”’

“‘ Who’s this? Leave go, I say.”

“Mr. Stack, won’t you ask her to come upstairs? ...
Don’t encourage her.”

“ Upstairs? I’m a free woman. I don’t want to go
upstairs. I’m a free woman; tell me,” she said, balancing
herself with difficulty and staring at Esther with dull, fishy
eyes, “ tell me if I’m not a free woman? What do I want

>

upstairs for ?”
“Oh, Sarah, come upstairs and lie down. Don’t go out.”
“I’m going home. Hands off, hands off !” she said slapping
Esther’s hands from her arm.

“* For everyone was drunk last night,
And drunk the night before ;

And if we don’t get drunk to-night,
We won’t get drunk no more.

(Chorus)
“** Now you will have a drink with me,
And I will drink with you ;
For we're the very rowdiest lot
Of the rowdy Irish crew.’

““That’s what we used to sing in the lane, yer know;
should ’ave seen the coster gals with their feathers, dancing
and clinking their pewters. Rippin’ day, Bank ’oliday,
Epping, under the trees—’ow they did romp, them
gals !

“We all was roaring drunk last night,
And drunk the night before ;
And if we don’t get drunk to-night,
We won’t get drunk no more.’

307
Girls and boys, you know, all together.”

“ Sarah, listen to me.”

“Listen! Come and have a drink, old gal, just another
drink.” She staggered up to the counter. ‘‘ One more, just
for luck ; do you ’ear?” Before Charles could stop her she
had seized the whisky that had just been served. “ That’s
my whisky,” exclaimed Journeyman. He made a rapid
movement, but was too late. Sarah had drained the glass
and stood looking into space. Journeyman seemed so
disconcerted at the loss of his whisky that everyone
laughed.

A few minutes after Sarah staggered forward and fell
insensible into his arms, and was carried upstairs and laid on
the bed in the spare room.

“* She'll be precious bad to-morrow,” said Journeyman.

“T don’t know how you could have gone on helping her,”
Esther said to Charles when she got inside the bar ; and she
seemed so pained that out of deference to her feelings the
subject was dropped out of the conversation. She felt that
something shocking had happened for Sarah to have got
drunk deliberately. She would not have done that unless she
had some great trouble on her mind. William, too, was of this
opinion. Something serious must have happened. As they
went up to their room Esther said :

“It is all the fault of this betting. The neighbourhood is
completely ruined. They’re losing their *omes and their
furniture, and you'll bear the blame of it.”

“It do make me so wild to hear you talkin’ that way,
Esther. People will bet, you can’t stop them. I lays fair
prices, and they’re sure of their money. Yet you says they’re
losin’ their furniture, and that I shall have to bear the blame.”

When they got to the top of the stairs she said :

“‘ T must go and see how Sarah is.”

“Where am I? What’s happened? ... Take that
candle out of my eyes. Oh, my head is that painful.” She
fell back on the pillow, and Esther thought she had gone to

308
sleep again. But she opened her eyes. “ Where am I?
That’s you, Esther ?”

“ Yes, can’t you remember ?”

“No, I can’t. I remember that the ’orse didn’t win, but
don’t remember nothing after. I got drunk, didn’t I? It
feels like it.”

“ The ‘orse didn’t win, and then you took too much. It’s
very foolish of you to give way.”

‘Give way! Drunk, what matter? I’m done for.”

“ Did you lose much ?”

“Tt wasn’t what I lost, it was what I took. I gave Bill the
plate to pledge ; it’s all gone, and master and missis coming
back to-morrow. And I got drunk so that I shouldn’t think of
it. ;

** Oh, Sarah, I didn’t think it was as bad as that. You
must tell me all about it.”

“J don’t want to think about it. They'll come soon
enough to take me away. Besides, I can remember nothing
Give me adrink. Never
mind the glass, give me the water-bottle.”

now. My mouth’s that awful

She drank ravenously, seemed to recover a little, and
Esther pressed her to tell her about the pledged plate. “ You
know that I am your friend. You’d better tell me. I want
to help you out of this scrape.”

“No one can help me now, I’m done for. Let them come
and take me. I'll go with them. I shan’t say nothing.”

“ How much is it in for? Don’t cry like that,” Esther said,
and she took out her handkerchief and wiped Sarah’s eyes.
“How much is it in for? Perhaps I can get my husband to
lend me the money to get it out.”

“ It’s no use trying to help me, Esther, I can’t talk about it
now ; I shall go mad if I do.”

“Tell me how much you got on it.”

“ Thirty pounds.”

It took a long time to undress her. Every now and then
she made an effort, and another article of clothing was dragged

309
off her. She was asleep when Esther returned to her room
William was asleep, and Esther took him by the shoulder.

“It is more serious than I thought for,” she shouted. “I
want to tell you about it.”

“ What about it ? ” he said, opening his eyes.

“ She has pledged the plate for thirty pounds to back that
orse.”

“What ’orse ?”

“ Ben Jonson.”

“He broke down at the bushes. If he hadn’t I should
have been broke up. The whole neighbourhood was on him.
So she pledged the plate to back him. She didn’t do that to
back him herself. Someone must have put her up to it.”

“Yes, it was Bill Evans.”

“ Ah, that blackguard put her up to it. I thought she’d
left him for good. She promised us that she’d never speak to
him again.”

“You see, she was that fond of him that she couldn’t help
herself. There’s many that can’t.”

“ How much did they get on the plate ?”

“ Thirty pounds.”

William blew a long whistle. Then, starting up in bed, he
said, ‘‘She can’t stop here. If it comes out that it was
through betting, it won’t do this house any good. We're
already suspected. There’s that old sweetheart of yours, the
Salvation cove, on the lookout for evidence of betting being
carried on.”

“ She'll go away in the morning. But I thought that you
might lend her the money to get the plate out.”

“What! thirty pounds ?”

“It’s a deal of money, I know; but I thought that you
might be able to manage it. You've been lucky over this
race.”

“Yes, but think of all I’ve lost this summer. This is the
first bit of luck I’ve had for a long while.”

“I thought you might be able to manage it.”

310

Esther stood by the bedside, her knee leaned against the
edge. She seemed to him at that moment as the best
woman in the world, and he said :

“Thirty pounds is no more to me than twopence-half-
penny if you wish it, Esther.”

‘“‘T haven’t been an extravagant wife, have 1?” she said,
getting into bed and taking him in her arms. “I never
asked you for money before. She’s my friend—she’s yours
too—we’ve known her all our lives. We can’t see her go to
prison, can we, Bill, without raising a finger to save her ?”’

She had never called him Bill before, and the familiar
abbreviation touched him, and he said :

“I owe everything to you, Esther; everything that’s
mine is yours. But,” he said, drawing away so that he might
see her better, “ what do you say if I ask something of you ?”

“What are you going to ask me ?”

“T want you to say that you won’t bother me no more
about the betting. You was brought up to think it wicked ;
I know all that, but you see we can’t do without it.”

“ Do you think not ?”

“* Don’t the thirty bea you're asking for Sarah come out
of betting ?”

“IT suppose it do.”

“ Most certainly it do.”

“ T can’t help feeling, Bill, that we shan’t always be so lucky
as we have been.”

“You mean that you think that one of these days we shall
have the police down upon us ?”

“Don’t you sometimes think that we can’t always go on
without being caught ? Every day I hear of the police being
down on some betting club or other.”

“ They’ve been down on a great number lately, but what
can I do? We always come back to that. I haven’t the
health to work round from racecourse to racecourse as I used
to. But I’ve got an idea, Esther. I’ve been thinking over
things a great deal lately, and—give me my pipe—there, it’s

311
just by you. Now, hold the candle, like a good girl.”

William pulled at his pipe until it was fully lighted. He
threw himself on his back, and then he said :

“T’ve been thinking things over. The betting ’as brought
us a nice bit of tradé here. If we can work up the business a
bit more we might, let’s say in a year from now, be able to get
as much for the ’ouse as we gave for it. What do you think of
buying a business in the country, a ’ouse doing a steady
trade? I’ve had enough of London, the climate don’t suit
me as it used to. I fancy I should be much better in the
country, somewhere on the South Coast. Bournemouth way,
what do you think ?”

Before Esther could reply William was taken with a fit of
coughing, and his great broad frame was shaken as if it were
so much paper.

“T’m sure,’’ said Esther, when he had recovered himself a
little, ‘‘ that a good deal of your trouble comes from that pipe.
It’s never out of your mouth. I feel like choking myself.’

“‘T daresay I smoke too much. I’m not the manI was. I
can feel it plain enough. Put my pipe down and blow out the
candle. I didn’t ask you how Sarah was.”

“Very bad. She was half dazed and didn’t tell me much.”

“ She didn’t tell you where she had pledged the plate ?”

“No, I will ask her about that to-morrow morning,” and
leaning forward she blew out the candle. The wick smouldered
red for a moment, and they fell asleep happy in each other’s
love, seeming to find new bonds of union in pity for their
friend’s misfortune.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

“‘ SanaH, you must make an effort and try to dress yourself.”
** Oh, I do feel that bad, I wish I was dead !”
“You mustn’t give way like that ; let me help you put on
your stockings.”

312

Sarah looked at Esther. ‘‘ You’re very good to me, but I
can manage.” When she had drawn on her stockings her
strength was exhausted, and she fell back on the pillow.

‘‘ Here’re your petticoats. Tie them round you; and I'll
lend you a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers.”

William, who was having breakfast in the parlour, asked
Sarah what she’d have. ‘‘ There’s a nice bit of fried fish,” he
said. ‘‘ Not feeling up to it?” *

“Oh, no! I couldn’t touch anything.” She let herself
drop on the sofa.

‘“A cup of tea’ll do you good,” said Esther. “ You must
have a cup of tea, and a bit of toast just to nibble. William,
pour her out a cup of tea.”

When she had drunk the tea she said she felt a little better.

‘ Now,” said William, “‘ let’s ’ear all about it. Esther has
told you, no doubt, that we intend to do all we can to help
you.”

“You can’t help me. I’m done for,” she replied dolefully.

“ T don’t know about that,” said William. “ You gave that
brute Bill Evans the plate to pawn, so far as I know.”

“ There isn’t much more to tell. He said the horse was sure _
to win. He was at thirty to one at that time. A thousand to
thirty. Bill said with that money we could buy a public-
house in the country. He wanted to settle down, he wanted
to get out of. I don’t want to say nothing against him.
He said if I would only give him this chance of leading a
respectable life, we was to be married immediately after.”

“He told you all that, did he? He said he’d give you a
ome of your owns I know. A regular rotter; that man is
about as bad as they make ’em. And you believed it
all ?”

“It wasn’t so much what I believed as that I couldn’t help
myself. He has got that hold over me that my will isn’t my
own. I don’t know how it is—I suppose men have stronger
natures than women. I ’ardly knew what I was doing; it
was like sleep-walking. He looked at me and said, ‘ You’d

313
better do it.’ I did it, and I suppose I'll have to go to prison
for it. What I says is just the truth, but no one believes tales
like that. How long do you think they'll give me ?”

“ Thope we shall be able to get you out of this scrape. You
got thirty pounds on the plate. Esther has told you that I’m
ready to lend you the money to get it out.”

“Will you do this? You’re good friends, you are. But I
shall never be able to pay you back such a lot of money.”

“We won’t say nothing about paying back; all we want
you to dois to say that you'll never see that fellow again.”

A change of expression came over Sarah’s face, and William
said, “ You’re surely not still hankering after him ?”

“No, that I’m not. But whenever I meets him he some-
how gets his way with me. It’s terrible to love a man as I love
him. I know he don’t really care for me—I know he is all you
say, and yet I can’t help myself. It is better to be honest with
you.”

William looked puzzled. At the end of a long silence he
said, “If it’s like that I don’t see that we can do any-
thing.”

“ Have patience, William. Sarah don’t know what she’s
saying. She’ll promise not to see him again.”

“You’re very kind to me. I know I’m very foolish. I
promised before not to see him, and I couldn’t keep my
promise.”

“You can stop with us until you get a situation in the
country,” said Esther, “ where you'll be out of his way.”

““T might do that.”

“TI don’t like to part with my money,” said William, “ if it
is to do no one any good.” Esther looked at him, and he
added, “‘ It is just as Esther wishes, of course ; I’m not giving
you the money, it is she.”

“It is both of us,” said Esther; ‘“ you'll do what I said,
Sarah ?”

“Oh, yes, anything you say, Esther,” and she flung
herself into her friend’s arms and wept bitterly.

314

“‘ Now we want to know where you pawned the plate,” said
William. .

“* A long way from here. Bill said he knew a place where it
would be quite safe. I was to say that my mistress left it to
me ; he said that would be sufficient. It was in the Mile End
Road.” : <

“* You’d know the shop again ?” said William.

“* But she’s got the ticket,” said Esther.

“No, I ain’t got the ticket ; Bill has it.”

“Then I’m afraid the game’s up.”

“Do be quiet,” said Esther, angrily. “ If you want to get
out of lending the money say so and have done with it.”

“ That’s not true, Esther. If you want another thirty to
pay him to give up the ticket, you can have it.”

Esther thanked her husband with one quick look. “ I’m
sorry,” she said, “ my temper is hasty. But you know where
he lives,” she said, turning to the wretched woman who sat on
the sofa pale and trembling.

“Yes, I know where he lives—13 Milward Square, Mile
End Road.”

“Then we've no time to lose; we must go after him at
once.” ‘

“No, William dear; you must not ; -you’d only lose your
temper, and he might do you an injury.”

“ Aninjury! I’d soon show him which was the best man of
the two.”

“ Tl not hear ofit, Sarah. He mustn’t go with you.”

“Come, Esther, don’t be foolish. Let me go.”

He had taken his hat from the peg. Esther got between
him and the door.

“TI forbid it,” she said ; “ I will not let you go—perhaps to
have a fight, and with that cough.”

William was coughing. He had turned pale, and he said,
leaning against the table, ‘‘ Give me something to drink, a
little milk.”

Esther poured some into a cup. He sipped it slowly.

315
“T’'ll go upstairs,” she said, “‘ for my hat and jacket. You've
got your betting to attend to.” William smiled. ‘‘ Sarah
mind, he’s not to go with you.”

“ You forget what you said last night about the betting.”

“Never mind what I said last night about the betting ;
what I say now is that you’re not to leave the bar. Come
upstairs, Sarah, and dress yourself, and let’s be off.”

Stack and Journeyman were waiting to speak to him.
They had lost heavily over old Ben and didn’t know how
they’d pull through ; and the whole neighbourhood was in the
same plight ; the bar was filled with gloomy faces.

And as William scanned their disconcerted faces—clerks,
hairdressers, waiters from the innumerable eating houses—he
could not help thinking that perhaps more than one of them
had taken money that did not belong to them to back Ben
Jonson. The unexpected disaster had upset all their plans,
and even the wary ones who had a little reserve fund could not
help backing outsiders, hoping by the longer odds to retrieve
yesterday’s losses. At two the bar was empty, and William
waited for Esther and Sarah to return from Mile End. It
seemed to him that they were a long time away. But Mile
End is not close to Soho ; and when they returned, between
four and five, he saw at once that they had been unsuccessful.
He lifted up the flap in the counter and all three went into the
parlour.

‘He left Milward Square yesterday,” Esther said, “ and
we went to another address, and then to another ; we went to
all the places Sarah had been to with him, but no tidings
anywhere.”

Sarah burst into tears. ‘‘ There’s no more hope,” she said.
“I’m done for ; they’ll come and take me away. How much
do you think I’ll get? They won’t give me ten years, will
they ?”

“ T can see nothing else for you to do,” said Esther, “ but to
go straight back to your people and tell them the whole
story, and throw yourself on their mercy.”’

316

‘Do you mean that she should say that she pawned the
plate to get money to back a horse ?”

“ Of course I do.”

“It will make the police more keen than ever on the
betting houses.”

“* That can’t be helped.” ‘

“‘ She’d better not be took here,” said William ; “ it will do
a great deal of harm. It don’t make no difference to her
where she’s took, do it ?”

Esther did not answer.

“T’ll go away. I don’t want to get no one into trouble,”
Sarah said, and she got up from the sofa.

At that moment Cee opened the door, and said, ‘“* You're
wanted in the bar, sir.’

William went out quickly. He returned a moment after.
There was a scared look on his face. ‘“‘ They’re here,” he said.
He was followed by two policemen. Sarah uttered a little
cry.

“Your name is Sarah Tucker ?” said the first policeman.

VeLese:

“You're charged with sees) by Mr. Sheldon, 34 Cum-
berland Place.”

“* Shall I be taken seotiee the streets ?”

“If you like to pay for it, you can go in a cab,” the police-
officer replied.

“Tl go with you, dear,” Esther said. William plucked her
by the sleeve. ‘“‘ It willdono good. Why should you go ?”

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE magistrate, of course, sent the case for trial, and the
thirty pounds which William had promised to give to Esther
went to pay for the defence. There seemed at first some
hope that the prosecution would not be able to prove its case,
but fresh evidence connecting Sarah with the abstraction of

317

the plate was forthcoming, and in the end it was thought
advisable that the plea of not guilty should be withdrawn.
The efforts of counsel were therefore directed towards a
mitigation of sentence. Counsel called Esther and William
for the purpose of proving the excellent character that. the
prisoner had hitherto borne ; counsel spoke of the evil in-
fluence into which the prisoner had fallen, and urged that she
had no intention of actually stealing the plate.’ Tempted by
promises, she had been persuaded to pledge the plate in order
to back a horse which she had been told was certain to win. If
that horse had won, the plate would have been redeemed and
returned to its proper place in the owner’s house, and the
prisoner would have been able to marry. Possibly the
marriage on which the prisoner had set her heart would have
turned out more unfortunate for the prisoner than the present
proceedings. Counsel had not words strong enough to
stigmatise the character of a man who, having induced a girl to
imperil her liberty for his own vile ends, was cowardly enough
to abandon her in the hour of her deepest distress. Counsel
drew attention to the trusting nature of the prisoner, who had
not only pledged her employer’s plate at his base instigation,
but had likewise been foolish enough to confide the pawn-
ticket to his keeping. Such was the prisoner’s story, and he
submitted that it bore on the face of it the stamp of truth. A
very sad story, but one full of simple, foolish, trusting
humanity ; and, having regard to the excellent character the
prisoner had borne, counsel hoped that his lordship would see
his way to dealing leniently with her.

His lordship, whose gallantries had been prolonged over half
a century, and whose betting transactions were matters of
public comment, pursed up his ancient lips and fixed his dead
glassy eyes on the prisoner. He said he regretted that he
could not take the same view of the prisoner’s character as
learned counsel had done. The police had made every effort
to apprehend the man Evans who, according to the prisoner’s
story, was the principal culprit. But the efforts of the police

318

had been unavailing ; they had, however, found traces of the
man Evans, who undoubtedly did exist, and need not be
considered to be a near relative of our friend Mrs. Harris.
The trite joke provoked some little merriment in the court.
Learned counsel settled their robes becomingly and leant
forward to listen, feeling that they were in for a humorous
speech, and that the prisoner would get off with a light sen-
tence. But the grim smile waxed duller, and it was clear that
lordship was determined to make the law a terror to evil
doers.

Lordship drew attention to the fact that during the course
of their investigations the police had discovered that the
prisoner had been living for some considerable time with the
man Evans, during which time several robberies had been
effected. There was no evidence, it was true, to connect the
prisoner with these robberies. The prisoner had left the man
Evans and had obtained a situation in the house of her
present employers. When the characters she had received
from her former employers were being examined she had
accounted for the year she had spent with the man Evans by
saying that she had been staying with the Latches, the
publicans who had given evidence in her favour. It had also
come to the knowledge of the police that the man Evans used
to frequent the “ King’s Head,” that was the house owned by
the Latches ; it was probable that she had made there the
acquaintance of the man Evans. The prisoner had referred
her employers to the Latches, who had lent their sanction to
the falsehood regarding the year she was supposed to have
spent with them, but which she had really spent in cohabita-
tion with a notorious thief. Here lordship indulged in severe
remarks against those who enabled not wholly irreproachable
characters to obtain situations by false pretences, a very
common habit, and one attended with great danger to
society—one which society would do well to take precautions
to defend itself against.

The plate, his lordship remarked, was said to have been

319

pawned, but there was nothing to show that it had been
pawned, the prisoner’s explanation being that she had given
the pawn-ticket to the man Evans. She could not tell where
she had pawned the plate, her tale being that she and the
man Evans had gone down to Whitechapel together and
pawned it in the Mile End Road. But she did not know the
number of the pawnbroker’s, nor could she give any in-
dications as to its whereabouts—beyond the mere fact that it
was in the Mile End Road she could say nothing. All the
pawnbrokers in the Mile End Road had been searched, but no
plate answering to the description furnished by the pro-
secution could be found.

Learned counsel had endeavoured to show that it had been
in a measure unpremeditated, that it was the result of a
passing but irresistible temptation. Learned counsel had
endeavoured to introduce some element of romance into the
case; he had described the theft as the outcome of the

prisoner’s desire of marriage, but lordship could not find such
. purity of motive in the prisoner’s crime. There was nothing to
show that there was any thought of marriage in the prisoner’s
mind; the crime was the result, not of any desire of
marriage, but rather the result of vicious passion, concubinage.
Regarding the plea that the crime was unpremeditated, it was
only necessary to point out that it had been committed for a
distinct purpose and had been carried out in conjunction with
an accomplished thief.

“ There is now only one more point which I wish to refer to,
and that is the plea that the prisoner did not intend to steal the
plate, but only to obtain money upon it to enable her and the
partner in her guilt to back a horse for a race which they
believed to be—” his lordship was about to say a certainty for
him ; he stopped himself, however, in time—‘“ to be, to be,
which they believed him to be capable of winning. The race

_in question is, I think, called the Cesarewitch, and the name of
the horse (lordship had lost three hundred on Ben Jonson), if
my memory serves me right (here lordship fumbled amid

320

papers), yes, the name is, as I thought, Ben Jonson. Now, the
learned counsel for the defence suggested that, if the horse
had won, the plate would have been redeemed and restored to
its proper place in the pantry cupboards. This, I venture to
point out, is a mere hypothesis. The money might have been
again used for the purpose of gambling. I confess that I do
not see why we should condone the prisoner’s offente because
it was committed for the sake of obtaining money for gambling
purposes. Indeed, it seems to me a reason for dealing heavily
with the offence. The vice among the poorer classes is
largely on the increase, and it seems to me that it is the duty
of all in authority to condemn rather than to condone the evil,
and to use every effort to stamp it out. For my part I fail to
perceive any romantic element in the vice of gambling. It
springs from the desire to obtain wealth without work, in other
words, without payment ; work, whether in the past or the
present, is the natural payment for wealth, and any wealth
that is obtained without work is in a measure a fraud com-
mitted upon the community. Poverty, despair, idleness, and
every other vice spring from gambling as naturally, and in the
- same profusion, as weeds from barren land. Drink, too, is
gambling’s firmest ally.” __

At this moment a certain dryness in his lordship’s throat
reminded him of the pint of excellent claret that lordship
always drank with his lunch, and the thought enabled lordship
to roll out some excellent invective against the evils of beer
and spirits. And lordship’s losses on the horse whose name he
could hardly recall helped to a forcible illustration of the
theory that drink and gambling mutually uphold and enforce
each other. When the news came in that Ben Jonson had
broken down at the bushes, lordship had drunk a magnum of
champagne, and memory of this champagne inspired a telling
description of the sinking feeling consequent on the loss of a
wager, and the natural inclination of a man to turn to drink to
counteract it. Drink and gambling are growing social evils ;
in a great measure they are consequential, and only require

321

absolute legislation to stamp them out almost entirely. This
was not the first case of the kind that had come before him ; it
was one of many, but it was a typical case, presenting all the
familiar features of the vice of which he had therefore spoken
at unusual length. Such cases were on the increase, and, if
they continued to increase, the powers of the law would have
to be strengthened. But even as the law stood at present,
betting houses, public-houses in which betting was carried on,
were illegal, and it was the duty of the police to leave no
means untried to unearth the offenders and bring them to
justice. He condemned her to eighteen months’ hard labour
and, gathering up the papers on the desk, dismissed her for
ever from his mind, and the court adjourned for lunch, and
William and Esther edged their way out of the crowd of
lawyers and their clerks. Neither spoke for some time.
William was much exercised by his lordship’s remarks on
betting public-houses, and his advice that the police should
increase their vigilance and leave no means untried to uproot
that which was the curse and the ruin of the lower classes. It
was the old story—one law for the rich, another for the poor.
William did not seek to probe the question any further, this
examination seemed to him to have exhausted it; and he
remembered that when he was caught he would be fined a
hundred pounds, and probably lose his licence. And what
would he do then? He did not confide his fears to Esther.
She had promised to say no more about the betting ; but she
had not changed her opinion. She was one of those stubborn
ones who would rather die than admit they were wrong.
And then he wondered what she thought of his lordship’s
speech. Esther was thinking of the thin gruel Sarah would
have to eat, the plank bed on which she would have to sleep,
and the miserable future that awaited her when she should be
released from gaol.

It was a bright winter’s day ; the City folk were walking
rapidly, tightly buttoned up in top-coats, and in a windy sky a
flock of pigeons floated on straightened wings above the

322
telegraph wires. Fleet Street was full of journalists going to
luncheon bars and various eating houses, and Esther noticed
how lagard was William’s walk by comparison, how his
clothes hung loose about him, and that the sharp air was at
work on his lungs, making him cough. She asked him to
button himself up more closely.

“ Isn’t that old John’s wife ?” Esther said.

“Yes, that’s her,” said William. ‘‘ She’d have seen us if
that cove hadn’t given her the shilling. Lord, I didn’t think
they was as badly off as that. Did you ever see such rags ?
and that thick leg wrapped up in that awful stocking.”

The morning had been full of sadness, and Mrs. Randal’s
wandering rags had seemed to Esther like a sign. She grew
frightened, as the cattle do in the fields when the sky darkens
and the storm draws near. She suddenly remembered Mrs.
Barfield, and she heard her telling her of the unhappiness that
she had seen come from betting. Where was Mrs. Barfield ?
Should she ever see her again? Mr. Barfield was dead, Miss
May was forced to live abroad for the sake of her health ; all
that time of long ago was over and done with. Some words
that Mrs. Barfield had said came back to her ; she had never
quite understood them, but she had never quite forgotten
them ; they seemed to chime through her life. ‘“‘ My girl,”
Mrs. Barfield had said, “ I am more than twenty years older
than you, and I assure you that time has passed like a little
dream; life is nothing. We must think of what comes
after.”

“ Cheer up, old girl ; eighteen months is a long while, but it
ain’t a lifetime. She’ll get through it all right ; and when she
comes out we'll try to see what we can do for her.”

William’s voice startled Esther from the depth of her
dream ; she looked at him vaguely, and he saw that she had
been thinking of something different from what he had
suspected. ‘‘I thought it was on account of Sarah that you
was looking so sad.”

“No,” she said, ‘‘ I was not thinking of Sarah.”

323

Then, taking it for granted that she was thinking of the
wickedness of betting, his face darkened. It was aggravating
to have a wife who was always troubling about things that
couldn’t be helped.

The first person they saw on entering the bar was old John ;
and he sat in the corner of the bar on a high stool, his grey,
deathlike face sunk in the old unstarched shirt collar The
thin, wrinkled throat was hidden with the remains of a
cravat ; it was passed twice round, and tied according to the
fashion of fifty years ago. His boots were broken; the
trousers, a grey, dirty brown, were torn as high up as the
ankle ; they had been mended and the patches hardly held
together ; the frock-coat, green with age, with huge flaps over
the pockets, frayed and torn, and many sizes too large, hung
upon his starveling body. He seemed very feeble, and there
was neither light nor expression in his glassy, watery eyes.

“ Highteen months; a devil of a stiff sentence for a first
offence,’’ said William.

““T just dropped in. Charles said you'd sure to be back.
You're later than I expected.”

““ We stopped to have a bit of lunch. But you heard what I
said. She got eighteen months.”

“Who got eighteen months ?”

“ Sarah.”

“ Ah, Sarah. She was tried to-day. So she got eighteen
months.”

““What’s the matter? Wake up; you're half asleep.
What will you have to drink ?”

“A glass of milk, if you’ve got such a thing.”

“ Glass of milk! What is it, old man—not feeling well !”

“Not very well. The fact is, I’m starving.”

“Starving! Then come into the parlour and have some-
thing to eat. Why didn’t you say so before ?”

“* I didn’t like to.”

He led the old chap into the parlour and gave him a chair.
“ Didn’t like to tell me that you was as hard up as all that ?

«“

324
What do you mean? ‘You didn’t use to mind coming round
for half a quid.”

‘ That was to back a horse ; but I didn’t like coming to ask
for food—excuse me, I’m too weak to speak much.”

When old John: had eaten, William asked a it was that
things had gone so badly with him.

“I’ve had terrible bad luck lately, can’t get on a winner
nohow. I have backed ’orses that ’as been tried to win with
two stone more on their backs than they had to carry, but just
because I was on them they didn’t win. I don’t know how
many half-crowns I’ve had on first favourites. Then I tried
the second favourites, but they gave way to outsiders or the
first favourites when I took to backing them. Stack’s tips and
Ketley’s omens was all the same as far as I was concerned.
It’s a poor business when you're out of luck.”

“It is giving way to fancy that does for the backers. The
bookmaker’s advantage is that he bets on principle and not on
fancy.”

Old John told how unlucky he had been in business. He
had been dismissed from his employment in the restaurant,
not from any fault of his own—he had done his work well.
“But they don’t like old waiters; there’s always a lot of
young Germans about, and customers said I smelt bad. I
suppose it was my clothes and want of convenience at home for
keeping meself tidy. We've been so hard up to pay the three
and sixpence rent which we’ve owed, that the black coat and
weskit had to go to the pawnshop, so even if I did meet with a
job in the Exhibition places, where they ain’t so particular
about yer age, I shouldn’t be able to take it. It’s terrible to
think that I should have to come to this and after having
worked round the table this forty years, fifty pounds a year
and all found, and accustomed always to a big footman and
page-boy under me. But there’s plenty more like me. It’sa
poor game. You're well out of it. I suppose the end of it will
be the work’us. I’m pretty well wore out, and

The old man’s voice died away. He made no allusion to

325
his wife. His dislike to speak of her was part and parcel of his
dislike to speak of his private affairs. The conversation then
turned on Sarah, and William spoke of how the judge’s
remarks would put the police on the watch, and how difficult it
would be to continue his betting business without being found
out.

“There’s no doubt that it is most unfortunate,” said old
John. “ The only thing for you to do is to be very particular
about yer introductions, and to refuse to bet with all who
haven’t been properly introduced.”

“* Or to give up betting altogether,” said Esther:

“ Give up betting altogether !”’ William answered, his face
flushed ; and he gradually worked himself into a passion. “I
give you a good ’ome, don’t I? You want for nothing, do
yer? Well, that being so, I think you might keep your nose
out of your husband’s business. There’s plenty of prayer-
meetings where you can go preaching if you like.”

William would have said a good deal more, but his anger
brought on a fit of coughing. Esther looked at him con-
temptuously, and without answering she walked into the bar.

“ That’s a bad cough of yours,” said old John.

“ Yes,” said William, and he drank a little water to pass it
off. “I must see the doctor about it. It makes a chap so
irritable. The missis is in a pretty temper, ain’t she ?”

Old John did not reply; it was not his habit to notice
domestic differences of opinion, especially those in which
women had a share—queer cattle that he knew nothing about
The men talked for a long time regarding the danger the
judge’s remarks had brought the house into ; they considered
all the circumstances of the case, and when old John rose to go
William summed up the situation in these few words :

“ Bet I must, if I’m to get my living. The only thing I can
do is to be careful not to bet with strangers.”

“‘T don’t see how they can do nothing to you if yer makes
that yer principle and sticks to it,” said old John; and he put
on the huge-rimmed, greasy hat, three sizes too large for him.

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‘A pathetic old story,” William said to himself. ‘“ But I
daresay he’s right” ; and for several months William refused
over and over again to make bets with comparative strangers,
but the day came when his principle relaxed, and he took the
money of a man who he thought was all right. It was done on
the impulse of the moment, but the two half-crowns wrapped
up in paper, with the name of the horse written on the paper,
had hardly gone into the drawer than he felt that he had done
wrong. He couldn’t tell why, but the feeling came across him
that he had done wrong in taking the man’s money—a tall,
clean-shaven man dressed in broadcloth. It was too late to
draw back. The man had finished his beer and had left the
bar, which in itself was suspicious.

Three days afterwards, between twelve and one, just the
busiest time, when the bar was full of people, there came a cry
of ‘“‘ Police !”’ An effort was made to hide the betting plant ;
a rush was made for the doors. It was all too late; the
sergeant and a constable ordered that no one was to leave the
house ; other police were outside. The names and addresses

of all present were taken down; search was made, and the
packets of money and the betting books were discovered.
Then they all had to go to Marlborough Street.

CHAPTER XL

Next day the following account was given in most of the daily
papers: ‘ Raid on abetting man in the West End. William
Latch, 35, landlord of the ‘ King’s Head,’ Dean Street, Soho,
was charged that he, being a licensed person, did keep and use
his public-house for the purpose of betting with persons
resorting thereto. Thomas William, 35, billiard marker,
Gaulden Street, Battersea; Arthur Henry Parsons, 25,
waiter, Northumberland Street, Marylebone ; Joseph Stack,
52, gentleman; Harold Journeyman, 45, gentleman, High
Street, Norwood; Philip Hutchinson, grocer, Bisey Road,

327

Fulham; William Tann, piano-tuner, Standard Street,
Soho ; Charles Ketley, butterman, Green Street, Soho ; John
Randal, Frith Street, Soho; Charles Muller, 44, tailor,
Marylebone Lane; Arthur Bartram, stationer, East Street
Buildings ; William Burton, harness-maker, Blue Lion Street,
Bond Street, were charged with using the ‘King’s Head ’ for
the purpose of betting. Evidence was given by the police
regarding the room upstairs, where a good deal of drinking
went on after hours. There had been cases of disorder, and
the magistrate unfortunately remembered that a servant girl,
who had pledged her master’s plate to obtain money to back a
horse, had been arrested in the ‘ King’s Head.’ Taking these
facts into consideration, it seemed to him that he could not do
less than inflict a fine of £100. The men who were found in
Latch’s house he ordered to be bound over.”

Who had first given information? That was the question.
Old John sat smoking in his corner. Journeyman leaned
against the yellow-painted partition, his legs thrust out.
Stack stood square, his dark, crimson-tinted skin contrasting
with sallow-faced little Ketley.

“Don’t the omens throw no light on this ’ere matter ?”
said Journeyman.

Ketley started from his reverie.

“Ah,” said William, “if I only knew who the b——
was.”

“* Ain’t you got no idea of any sort ?” said Stack.

“There was a Salvation chap who came in some months
ago and told my wife that the betting was corrupting the
neighbourhood—that it would have to be put a stop to. It
may ’ave been ’e.”

“ You don’t ask no one to bet with you. They does as they
like.”

“ Does as they like! Noone does that nowadays. There’s
a temperance party, a purity party, and a hanti-gambling
party, and what they’re all working for is just to stop folk
from doing as they like.”

328

“ That’s it,” said Journeyman.

Stack raised his glass to his lips and said, ‘‘ Here’s luck.”

“ There’s not much of that about,” said William. ““ We
seem to be losing all round. I’d like to know where the
money goes. I think it is the ’ouse ; it’s gone unlucky, and
I’m thinking of clearing out.” \

“ We may live in a ’ouse a long while before we find what its
luck really is,” said Ketley. “ I’ve been in my old ’ouse these
twenty years, and it ain’t nothing like what I thought it.”

‘You're so superstitious,” said Journeyman. “If there
was anything the matter with the ’ouse you’d ’ve know’d it
before now.”

“ Ain’t you doing the trade you was ?” said Stack.

“No, my butter-and-egg trade have fallen dreadful lately.”’

The conversation paused. It was Stack who broke the
silence.

“ Do you intend to do no more betting ’ere ?’’ he asked.

“What after being fined £100? You ’eard the way he
went on about Sarah, and all on account of her being took here.
I think he might have left Sarah out.”

“Tt warn’t for betting she took the plate,”’ said Journey-
man ; “ it was ‘cause her chap said if she did he’d marry her.”

“‘ T wonder you ever left the course,” said Stack.

“Tt was on account of my ’ealth. I caught a dreadful cold
at Kempton, standing about in the mud. I’ve never quite
got over that cold.”

““T remember,” said Ketley ; “ you couldn’t speak above a
whisper for two months.”

“Two months! more like three.”

“Fourteen weeks,” said Esther.

She was in favour of disposing of the house and going to live
in the country. But it was soon found that the conviction for
keeping a betting house had spoiled their chance of an
advantageous sale. If, however, the licence were renewed
next year, and the business did not in the meantime decline,
they would be in a position to obtain better terms. So all

329

their energies should be devoted to the improvement of their
business. Esther engaged another servant, and she provided
the best meat and vegetables that money could buy ; William
ordered beer and spirits of a quality that could be procured
nowhere else in the neighbourhood ; but all to no purpose.
As soon as it became known that it was no longer possible to
pass half a crown or a shilling wrapped up in a piece of paper
across the bar, their custom began to decline.

At last William could stand it no longer, and he obtained
his wife’s permission to begin bookmaking once more on the
course. His health had begun to improve with the spring
weather, and there was no use keeping him at home eating his
heart out with vexation because they were doing no business.
So did Esther reason, and it reminded her of old times when he
came back with his race-glasses slung round his shoulder.
“ Favourites all beaten to-day ; what have you got for me to
eat, old girl?” Esther forgot her dislike of racing in the joy of
seeing her husband happy. If he’d only pick up a bit of
flesh! but he seemed to get thinner and thinner, and his food
didn’t seem to do him any good.

One day he came home complaining that the ring was six
inches of soft mud ; he was wet to the skin, and he sat shiver-
ing the whole evening, with the sensation of a long illness
upon him. His voice seemed as if it would never return to
him again, and there was little or no occupation for him in the
bar. Instead of laying he began to take the odds. He
backed a few winners, it is true ; but they could not rely on
that. Most of their trade had slipped from them, so it did not
much matter to them if they were found out. He might as
well be hung for an old sheep as a lamb, and surreptitiously at
first, and then more openly, he began to take money across
the bar, and with every shilling he took for a bet another
shilling was spent in drink. Custom came back in ripples, and
then in stronger waves, until once again the bar of the “ King’s
Head ” was full to overflowing. Another conviction meant
ruin, but they must risk it, so said William ; and Esther, like a

«

330

good wife, acquiesced in her husband’s decision. But he took
money only from those whom he was quite sure of. He
required an introduction, and was careful to make inquiries
concerning every new backer. “In this way,” he said to
Ketley, “ so long as you keep the book on a small scale, I think
it can be kept dark ; but if you try to extend your connection
you're bound to come across a wrong ’un sooner or later. It
was that room upstairs that did for me.”

“T never did think much of that room upstairs,” said
Ketley. “ There was a something about it that I didn’t like
Be sure you never bet in that jug-and-bottle bar, whatever you
do. There’s just the same luck in that ’ere bar there as in the
room upstairs. Haven’t you noticed it ?”

“ Can’t say I ’ave, nor am I sure that I know exactly what
you mean.”

“ If you don’t see it, you don’t see it ; but it’s plain enough
to me, and don’t you bet with nobody standing in that bar. I
wouldn’t go in there for a sovereign.”

William laughed. He thought at first that Ketley was
joking, but he soon saw that Ketley regarded the jug-and-
bottle entrance with real suspicion. When pressed to speak
his mind, he told Journeyman that it wasn’t that he was
afraid of the place, he merely didn’t like it. ‘‘ There’s some’
places that you likes better than others, ain’t they ?” Journey-
man was obliged to confess that there were.

“Well, then, that’s one of the places I don’t like. Don’t
you hear a voice talking there, a soft, low voice, with a bit of a
jeer in it?”

On another occasion he shaded his eyes and peered curiously
into the left-hand corner.

“ What are you looking at ?” asked Journeyman.

“ At nothing that you can see,” Ketley answered; and
he drank his whisky as if lost in consideration of grave and
difficult things. A few weeks later they noticed that he
always got as far from the jug-and-bottle entrance as possible,
and he was afflicted with a long story concerning a danger that

331
awaited him. “ He’s waiting ; but nothing will happen if I
don’t go in there. He can’t follow me; he is waiting for me
to go to him.”

“Then keep out of his way,” said Journeyman. ‘“ You
might ask your bloody friend if he can tell us anything about
the Leger.”

“ T’m trying to keep out of his way, but he’s always watching
and a-beckoning of me.”

““ Can you see him now ?” asked Stack.

“Yes,” said Ketley ; “ he’s a-sitting there, and he seems to
say that if I don’t come to him worse will happen.”

“ Don’t say nothing to him,” William whispered to Journey-
man. “I don’t think he’s quite right in ’is ’ead; he’s been
losing a lot lately.”

One day Journeyman was surprised to see Ketley sitting
quite composedly in the jug-and-bottle bar.

“ He got me at last ; I had to go, the whispering got so loud
in my head as I was a-coming down the street. I tried to get
out into the middle of the street, but a drunken chap pushed
me across the pavement, and he was at the door waiting, and
he said, ‘ Now, you’d better come in; you know what will
happen if you don’t.’ ”

“ Don’t talk rot, old pal ; come round and have a drink with
us.”

“ T can’t just at present—I may later on.”’

“What do he mean ?” said Stack.

“‘ Lord, I don’t know,” said Journeyman. “ It’s only his
balmy talk.”

They tried to discuss the chances of the various horses they
were interested in, but they could not detach their thoughts
from Ketley, and their eyes went back to the queer little
sallow-faced man who sat on a high stool in the adjoining bar
paring his nails.

They felt something was going to happen, and before they
could say the word he had plunged the knife deep into his
neck, and had fallen heavily on the floor. William vaulted

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332
over the counter. As he did so he felt something break in his
throat, and when Stack and Journeyman came to his assistance
he was almost as white as the corpse at his feet. Blood
flowed from his mouth and from Ketley’s neck in a deep
stream that swelled into a great pool and thickened on the
sawdust. \

“ It was jumping over that bar,” William replied, faintly.

** T’ll see to my husband,” said Esther.

A rush of blood cut short his words, and, leaning on his wife,
he walked feebly round into the back parlour. Esther rang
the bell violently.

““ Go round at once to Doctor Green,” she said ; “ and if he
isn’t in inquire which is the nearest. Don’t come back with-
out a doctor.”

William had broken a small blood-vessel, and the doctor
said he would have to be very careful for a long time. It was
likely to prove a long case. But Ketley had severed the
jugular at one swift, keen stroke, and had died almost in-
stantly. Of course there was an inquest, and the coroner
asked many questions regarding the habits of the deceased
Mrs. Ketley was one of the witnesses called, and she deposed
that he had lost a great deal of money lately in betting, and
that he went to the “ King’s Head” for the purpose of
betting. The police deposed that the landlord of the “ King’s
Head ”’ had been fined a hundred pounds for keeping a betting
house, and the foreman of the jury remarked that betting
houses were the ruin of the poorer classes, and that they ought
to be put astopto. The coroner added that such places as the
“King’s Head” should not be licensed. That was the
simplest and most effectual way of dealing with the nuisance.

“‘ There never was no luck about this house,” said William,
“and what there was has left us; in three months’ time
we shall be turned out of it neck and crop. Another con-
viction would mean a fine of a couple of hundred, or most
like three months, and that would just about be the end of

9?

me,

‘

333

“ They'll never license us again,” said Esther, “ and the
boy’s at school and doing so well.”

“T’m sorry, Esther, to have brought this trouble on you.
We must get the best price we can for the ’ouse. I may be
lucky enough to back a few winners. That’s all there is to be
said—the ’ouse was always an unlucky one. I hate the place,
and shall be glad to get out of it.”

Esther sighed. She didn’t like to hear the house spoken ill
of, and after so many years it did seem a shame.

CHAPTER XLI

Estuer kept William within doors during the winter months,
If his health did not improve it got no worse, and she had
begun to hope that the breakage of the blood-vessel did not
mean lung disease. But the harsh winds of spring did not
suit him, and there was business with his lawyer to which he
was obliged to attend. A determined set was going to be
made against the renewal of his licence, and he was deter-
mined to defeat his opponents. Counsel was instructed, and a
great deal of money was spent on the case. But the licence
was nevertheless refused, and the north-east wind seemed
resolved on William’s death, and with a sick husband on her
hands, and all the money they had invested in the house lost,
Esther began to make preparations for moving.

William had proved a kind husband, and in the seven years
she had spent in the “ King’s Head ” there had been some
enjoyment of life. She couldn’t say that she had been un-
happy. She had always disapproved of the betting. They
had tried to do without it. There was a great deal in life
which one couldn’t approve of. But Ketley had never been
very right in his head, and Sarah’s misfortune had had very
little to do with the “ King’s Head.” They had all tried to
keep her from that man ; it was her own fault. There were
worse places than the “ King’s Head.”’ It wasn’t for her to

«

334

abuse it. She had lived there seven years ; she had seen her
boy growing up—he was almost a young man now, and had had
the best education. That much good the “ King’s Head ”’
had done. But perhaps it was no longer suited to William’s
health. The betting, she was tired thinking about that ; and
that constant nipping, it was impossible for him to keep from
it with everyone asking him to drink with them. A look of
fear and distress passed across.her face.

She was rolling up a pair of curtains, and she stopped for a
moment, for she did not know how they were to live, that was
the worst of it. If they only had back the money they had
sunk in the house she would not so much mind. Seven years
of hard work—for she had worked hard—and nothing to show
for it. If she had been doing the grand lady all the time it
would have been no worse. Horses had won and horses had
lost—a great deal of trouble and fuss and nothing to show for
it. That was what stuck in her throat. Nothing to show for
it. She looked round the dismantled walls, and descended the
vacant staircase. She would never serve another pint of beer
in that bar. What a strong, big fellow he was when she first
went to live with him! He was sadly changed. Would she
ever see him strong and well again? She remembered that he .
had told her he was worth nearly £3000. She hadn’t brought
him luck. He wasn’t worth anything like that to-day.

“* How much have we in the bank, dear ?”

“A bit over six hundred pounds. I was reckoning of it up
yesterday. But what do you want to know for? To remind
me that I’ve been losing. Well, I have been losing. I hope
you re satisfied.”

“T wasn’t thinking of such a thing.”

“Yes, you was, there’s no use saying you wasn’t. It ain’t
my fault if the ’orses don’t win ; I do the best I can.”

She did not answer him. Then he said, “ It’s my ’ealth that
makes me irritable, dear ; you aren’t angry, are you ?”

“No, dear, I know you don’t mean it, and I don’t pay no
attention to it.” She spoke so gently that he looked at her

335
surprised, for he knew her quick temper, and he said, “‘ You’re
the best wife a man ever had.” i

“ No I’m not, Bill, but I tries to do my best.”

The spring was the harshest ever known, and his cough grew
worse and the blood-spitting returned. Esther grew seriously
alarmed. Their doctor spoke of Brompton Hospital, and she
insisted on his going there to be examined. William would
not have her come with him ; and she did not press the point,
fearing to irritate him, but sat at home waiting anxiously for
him to return, hoping against hope, for their doctor had told
her that he feared very long trouble. And she could tell from
his face and manner that he had bad news for her. All her
strength left her, but she conquered her weakness and said :

“* Now, tell me what they said. I’ve a right to know; I
want to know.”

“They said it was consumption.”

“ Oh, did they say that ?”

“Yes, but that don’t mean that I’m going todie. They said
they hoped they could patch me up; people often live for
years with only half a lung, and it is only the left one that’s
gone.”

He coughed slightly and wiped the blood from his lips.
Esther was quite overcome.

** Now, don’t look like that,” he said, “ or I shall fancy I’m
going to die to-morrow.”

‘« They said they thought that they could patch you up ?”

“Yes; they said I might go on a long while yet, but that I
would never be the man I was.”

This was so plain that she could not check a look of pity.

“ If you're going to look at me like that I’d sooner go into
the hospital at once. It ain’t the cheerfullest of places, but it
will be better than here.”

“Tm sorry it was consumption. But if they said they could
patch you up, it will be all right. It was a great deal for them
to say.” :

Her duty was to overcome her grief and speak as if the

336

doctors had told him that there was nothing the matter that a
little careful nursing would fail to put right. William had
faith in the warm weather, and she resolved to put her trust in
it. It was hard to see him wasting away before her eyes and
keep cheerful looks in her face and an accent of cheerfulness in
her voice. The sunshine which had come at last seemed to
suck up all the life that was in him; he grew paler, and
withered like a plant. Then ill luck seemed to have joined in
the hunt; he could not “ touch ” a winner, and their fortune
drained away with his life. Favourites and outsiders—it
mattered not ; whatever he backed lost ; and Esther dreaded
the cry “ Win-ner, all the win-ners!’’ He sat on the little
balcony in the sunny evenings looking down the back street
for the boy to appear with the “ special.” Then she had to go
and fetch the paper On the rare occasions when he won, the
spectacle was even more painful. He brightened up, his thin
arm and hand moved nervously, and he began to make
projects and indulge in hopes which she knew were vain.

She insisted, however, on his taking regularly the medicine
they gave him at the hospital, and this was difficult todo. For
his irritability increased in measure as he perceived the
medicine was doing him no good; he found fault with the
doctors, railed against them unjustly, and all the while the
little cough continued, and the blood-spitting returned at the
end of cruel intervals, when he had begun to hope that at least
that trouble was done with. One morning he told his wife
that he was going to ask the doctors to examine him again.
They had spoken of patching up; but he wanted to know
whether he was going to live or die. There was a certain
relief in hearing him speak so plainly ; she had had enough of
the torture of hope, and would like to know the worst. He
liked better to go to the hospital alone, but she felt that she
could not sit at home counting the minutes for him to return,
and begged to be allowed to go with him. To her surprise, he
offered no opposition. She had expected that her request
would bring about quite a little scene, but he had taken it so

337

much as a matter of course that she should accompany him
that she was doubly glad that she had proposed to go with
him ; if she hadn’t he might have accused her of neglecting
him. She put on her hat—the day was too hot for a jacket, it
was the beginning of August, and the poor, dry, dusty air that
remained after the season made William cough, and she hoped
the doctors would order him to the seaside. At Hyde Park
Corner the blown dust whirled about the hilltop; and the
wide pavements of the Brompton Road, and a semi-detached
public-house at the cross roads, announced the beginning of
suburban London to the Londoner.

“You see,” said William, “‘ where them trees are, where the
road turns off to the left. That ’ouse is the ‘ Bell and Horns.
And that’s the sort of house I should like to see you in.”

“It’s a pity we didn’t buy it when we had the money.”

“Buy it! That ’ouse is worth ten thousand pounds if it’s
worth a penny.”

“ I was once in a situation not far from here.”

Her first service was with Mrs. Dunbar, in Sydney Street,
and she remembered the square church tower at the Chelsea
end ; a little farther on there was the Vestry Hall in the
King’s Road, and then Oakley Street on the left, leading
down to Battersea. Mrs. Dunbar used to go to some gardens
at the end of the King’s Road. Cremorne Gardens, that was
the name; and she often spent the evening at the back
window watching the rockets go up. The neighbourhood
came back to her—Palmer the butterman, Hyde the grocer.
And everything was just the same ; not muchchange. How
many years ago? Fifteen or sixteen. And so enwrapped
was she in memories that William had to touch her. “ Here
we are,” he said.

“ So we are,” she answered, startled by the familiar aspect
of the great red-brick building, a centrepiece with two wings,
surrounded by high iron railings and lined with gloomy
shrubs. The long straight walks, the dismal trees arow,
where pale-faced men walked or rested feebly, had impressed

338

themselves on her young mind—thin patient men, pacing
their sepulchre. She used to wonder who they were, if they
would get well ; and then, with sensation of lingering death in
her mind, she hurried away on her errands. The low wooden
yellow-painted gates were unchanged. She had never seen
them open before, and it was new to her to seathe gardens
filled with bright sunshine and numerous visitors. A little
yellow was creeping through the leaves, and from time to time
a leaf fell exhausted from the branches.

William, who was already familiar with the custom of the
place, nodded to the porter and was let pass without question.
He did not turn to the principal entrance in the middle of the
building, but went towards a side entrance, where the house
physician was standing talking with a young man whom
Esther recognised as Mr. Alden. The thought that he, too,
might be dying of consumption crossed her mind, but his
appearance and his healthy, hearty laugh reassured her. A
stout, common girl, healthy too, came out of the building, with
a child, a little thing of twelve or thirteen, with death in her
face. Mr. Alden stopped her, and in his cheerful, kind
manner hoped the little one was better. She answered that
she was. The doctor bade him good-bye and beckoned
William and Esther to follow him. Esther would have liked
to have spoken to Mr. Alden. But he did not see her, and she
followed her husband, who was talking with the doctor,
through the doorway into a long passage. At the end of the
passage there were a number of girls in print dresses. The
gaiety of the dresses led Esther to think that they must be
visitors. But the little cough warned her that death was
among them. As she went past she caught sight of a wasted
form in a bath-chair. Thin hands were laid on the knees,
on a little handkerchief, and there were spots on the whiteness
deeper than the colour of the dress. They passed down
another passage, meeting a sister on their way ; pretty and
discreet she was in her black dress and veil, and she raised
her eyes, glancing affectionately at the young doctor. No

339
doubt they loved each other. The eternal love-story among
so much death !

Esther wished to be present at the examination, but a
sudden whim made William say that he would prefer to be
alone with the doctor, and she returned to the gardens. Mr.
Alden had not yet gone, and the little girl she had seen him
speaking to was sitting on a bench under the trees, holding in
her hands a skein of yellow worsted which her companion was
winding into a ball. Two other young women were with
them, and all four were smiling and whispering and looking
towards Mr. Alden, seeking to attract his attention, hoping he
would come and speak to them—just the natural desire of
women to please; and moved by the pathos of this poor
coquetting he went to them, and Esther could see that they all
wanted to talk to him. She too would have liked to have
spoken to him, for he was an old friend. And she walked up
the grounds, intending to pass by him as she walked back.
His back was still turned to her, and they were all so interested
that they gave no heed to anything else. One of the young
women had an exceedingly pretty face—a small oval, perfectly
snow-white—and large blue eyes shaded with long dark lashes,
a little aquiline nose—and Esther heard her say, ‘“‘ I should be
well enough if it wasn’t for the cough. It isn’t no better
since The cough interrupted the end of the sentence,
and affecting to misunderstand her, Mr. Alden said :

“ No better than it was a week ago.”

“ A week ago!” said the poor girl. “ It is no better since
Christmas.”

There was surprise in her voice ; the pity of it took Mr.
Alden in the throat, and it was with difficulty that he answered
that he hoped that the present fine weather would enable her
to get well. “ Such weather as this,” he said, “ is as good as

going abroad.”

One of the women had been to Australia for her health, and
the story of travel was interspersed by the little coughs,
terrible in their apparent insignificance. But it was Mr. Alden

340
that the others wished to hear speak ; they knew all about
their companion’s trip to Australia, and in their impatience
their eyes went towards Esther. So Mr. Alden became
aware of a new presence, and he turned.

“What ! - it you, Esther ?”

** Yes, sir.’

“But there doesn’t seem much the ater with you.
You're all right.”

“Yes, I’m all right, sir ; it’s my husband.”

They walked a few yards up the path.

“Your husband! I’m very sorry.”

“‘ He’s been an outdoor patient for some time ; he’s being
examined by the doctors now.”

“Whom did you marry, Esther ?”

-“ William Latch, a betting man, sir.”

“You married a betting man, Esther. How strangely
things work out! I remember you were engaged to a pious
young man, the stationer’s foreman. That was when you
were with Miss Rice ; you know, I suppose, that she’s dead.”

““ No, sir, I didn’t know it. I’ve had so much trouble lately
that I’ve not been to see her for Beaty two years. When did
she die, sir ?”’

“‘ About two months ago. So you married a betting man !
Miss Rice did say something about it, but I don’t think I
understood that he was a betting man; I thought he was a
publican.”

“So he was, sir. We lost our licence through the betting.”

“You say he’s being examined by the doctor. Is it a bad
case ?”

“ T am afraid it is, sir.”

They walked on in silence until they reached the gate.

“To me this place is infinitely pathetic. That little cough
never silent for long. Did you hear that poor girl say with
surprise that her cough is no better than it was last Christmas?”

“Yes, sir. Poor girl, I don’t think she’s long for this
world.”

341

“ But tell me about your husband, Esther,” he said, and his
face filled with an expression of true sympathy. “I am a
subscriber, and if your husband would like to become an
indoor patient, I hope you'll let me know.”

“ Thank you, sir ; you was always the kindest, but there’s
no reason why I should trouble you. Some friends of ours
have already recommended him, and it only rests with
himself to remain out or go in.”

He pulled out his watch and said, ‘‘ I am sorry to have met
you in such sad circumstances, but I am glad to have seen you.
It must be seven years or more since you left Miss Rice. You
haven’t changed much ; you keep your good looks.”

“* Oh, sir.”

He laughed at her embarrassment and walked across the
road hailing a hansom just as he used to in old times when he
came to see Miss Rice. The memory of those days came back
upon her, and she felt she had seen him for the last time. But
it was foolish, and wicked too, to think of such things—her
husband dying. But she couldn’t help it ; he reminded her of
so much of what was past and gone. A moment after she
dashed these personal tears aside and walked open-hearted to
meet William. What had the doctor said? She must know
the truth. If she was to lose him she would lose everything.
No, not everything ; her boy would still remain to her, and she
felt that, after all, her boy was most what was real to her in
life. These were the thoughts that passed through her mind
before William had time to answer her question.

“ He said the left lung was gone, that I’d never be able to
stand another winter in England. He said I must go to
Egypt.”

“ Egypt,” she repeated. ‘Is that very far from here ?”

“What matter how far it is! If I can’t live in England I
must go where I can live.”

“‘ Don’t be cross, dear. I know it’s your health that makes
you that irritable, but it’s hard to bear at times.”

“You won’t care to go to Egypt with me.”

342

“ How can you think that, Bill? Have I ever refused you
anything ?”

“ Quite right, old girl, I’m sorry. I know you'd do any-
thing for me. I’ve always said so, haven’t I? It’s this
cough that makes me sharp-tempered and fretful. I shall be
different when I get to Egypt.”

“‘ When do we start ?”

“If we get away by the end of October it will be all right.
It will cost a lot of money ; the journey is expensive, and we
shall have to stop there six months. I couldn’t think of
coming home before the end of April.”

x

Esther did not answer. They walked some yards in silence.
Then he said :

“‘ T’ve been very unlucky lately ; there isn’t much over a
hundred pounds in the bank.”

“ How much shall we want ?”

“Three or four hundred pounds at least. We won’t take
the boy with us, we couldn’t afford that ; but I should like to
pay a couple of quarters in advance.”

“That won’t be much.”

“Not if I have any luck. The luck must turn, and I have
some splendid information about the Great Ebor and the
Yorkshire Stakes. Stacks knows of a horse or two that’s being
kept for Sandown. Unfortunately there is not much doing in
August. I must try to make up the money : it’s a matter of
life and death.”

It was for his very life that her husband was now gambling
on the racecourse, and a sensation of great wickedness came
up in her mind, but she stifled it. But William noticed the
look of fear that appeared in her eyes, and he said :

“It’s my last chance. I can’t get the money any other
way ; and I don’t want to die yet awhile. I haven’t been as
good to you as I’d like, and I want to do something for the
boy, you know.”

He had been told not to remain out after sundown, but he
was resolved to leave no stone unturned in his search for

343

information, and often he returned home as late as nine and
ten o’clock at night coughing—Esther could hear him all up
the street. He came in ready to drop with fatigue, his
pockets filled with sporting papers, and these he studied,
spreading them on the table under the lamp, while Esther sat
striving to do some needlework. It often dropped out of her
hands, and her eyes filled with tears. But she took care
that he should not see these tears. Sometimes he read out
the horses’ names and asked her which she thought would win,
which seemed to her a likely name. But she begged of him
not to ask her; they had many quarrels on this subject,
but in the end he understood that it was not fair to ask her.
Sometimes Stack and Journeyman came in, and they argued
about weights and distances, until midnight ; old John came
to see them and every day he had heard some new tip. It
often rose to Esther’s lips to tell William to back his fancy and
have done with it ; she could see that these discussions only
fatigued him ; that he was no nearer to the truth now than
he was a fortnight ago. Meanwhile, the horse he had thought
of backing had gone up in the betting. But he said that he
must be very careful. They had only a hundred pounds left ;
he must be careful not to risk this money foolishly—it was his
very life-blood. If he were to lose all this money, he wouldn’t
only sign his own death-warrant, but also hers. He might
linger on a long while—there was no knowing,—but he would
never be able to do any work, that was certain (unless he went
out to Egypt) ; the doctor had said so, and then it would be
she who would have to support him. And if God were merci-
ful enough to take him off at once he would leave her in a
_ worse plight than he had found her in, and the boy growing up !
Oh, it was terrible! He buried his face in his hands, and
seemed quite overcome. Then the cough would take him,
and for a few minutes he could only think of himself. Esther
gave him a little milk to drink, and he said :

* There’s a hundred pounds left, Esther. It isn’t much,
but it’s something. I don’t believe that there’s much use

YX

344
in my going to Egypt. I shall never get well. It is better
that I should pitch myself into the river. That would be the
least selfish way out of it.”

“ William, I will not have you talk in that way,” Esther
said, laying down her work and going over to him. “If you
was to do such a thing I should never forgive you. I could
never think the same of you.”

“All right, old girl, don’t be frightened. I’ve been
thinking too much about them horses, and am a bit depressed.
I daresay it will come out all right. I think that Mahomet is
sure to win the Great Ebor, don’t you ?”

“T don’t think there’s no better judge than yourself.
They all say if he don’t fall lame that he’s bound to win.”

_ “Then Mahomet shall carry my money. I'll back him
to-morrow.”

Now that he had made up his mind what horse to back
his spirits revived. He was able to dismiss the subject from
his mind, and they talked of other things, of their son, and
they laid projects for his welfare. But on the day of the race,
from early morning, William could barely contain himself.
Usually he took his winnings and losings very quietly. When
he had been especially unlucky he swore a bit, but Esther
had never seen any great excitement before a race was run.
The issues of this race were extraordinary, and it was heart-
breaking to see him suffer; he could not remain still a
moment. A prey to all the terrors of hope, exhausted with
anticipation, he rested himself against the sideboard and
wiped drops of sweat from his forehead. A broiling sunlight
infested their window-panes, the room grew oven-like, and he
was obliged at last to go into the back parlour and lie down.
He lay there in his shirt sleeves quite exhausted, hardly able
to breathe ; the arm once so strong and healthy was shrunken
to a little nothing. He seemed quite bloodless, and looking
at him Esther could hardly hope that any climate would
restore him to health. He just asked her what the time was,
and said, ‘‘ The race is being run now.” A few minutes after

345

he said, “ I think Mahomet has won. I fancied I saw him get
first past the post.” He spoke as if he were sure, and said
nothing about the evening paper. If he were disappointed,
Esther felt that it would kill him, and she knelt down by the
bedside and prayed that God would allow the horse to win.
It meant her husband’s life, that was all she knew. Oh, that
the horse might win! Presently he said, “‘ There’s no use
praying, I feel sure it is all right. Go into the next room,
stand on the balcony so that you may see the boy coming
along.”

With agonised soul the woman viewed the serenity of the
evening sky and heard the cry ‘“‘ Win-ner, win-ner ” coming up
the street. It came from the north, from the east, and now
from the west. Ah, if it should prove bad news! But some-
how she too felt that the news was good, and ran to meet the
boy. She had a halfpenny ready in her hand; he fumbled,
striving to detach a single paper from the quire under his
arm. Seeing her impatience, he said, “ Mahomet’s won.”
Then the pavement seemed to slide beneath her feet, and she
hardly could see, so full was her heart, so burdened with the
happiness that she was bringing to the poor sick fellow who lay
in his shirt sleeves on the bed in the back room. “ It’s all
right,” she said. “‘ I thought so too; it seemed like it.” His
face flushed, life seemed to come back. He sat up and took the
paper from her. “There,” he said, ‘‘ I’ve got my place-
money, too. I hope Stack and Journeyman come in to-
night. I’d like to have a chat about this. Come, give me a
kiss, dear. I’m not going to die, after all. It isn’t a pleasant
thing to think that you must die, that there’s no hope for you,
that you must go under ground.”

The next thing to do was to pick the winner of the York-
shire Handicap. In this he was not successful, but he backed
several winners at Sandown Park, and at the close of the week
had made nearly enough to take him to Egypt.

The Doncaster week, however, proved disastrous. He lost
most of his winnings, and had to look forward to retrieving his

346
fortunes at Newmarket. ‘‘ The worst of it is, if I don’t make
up the money by October, it will be no use. They say the
November fogs will polish me off.”

Between Doncaster and Newmarket he lost a bet, and this
bet carried him back into despondency. He felt it was no
use struggling against fate. Better remain in London and be
taken away at the end of November or December; he
couldn’t last much longer than that. This would allow him to
leave Esther at least fifty pounds to go on with. The boy
would soon be able to earn money. It would be better so.
No use wasting all this money for the sake of his health,
which wasn’t worth twopence three-farthings. It was like
throwing sovereigns after farthings. He didn’t want to do
any betting ; he was as hollow as a shell inside, he could feel
it. Egypt could do nothing for him, and, as he had to go,
better sooner than later. Esther argued with him. What
should she have to live for if he was taken from her? The
doctors had said that Egypt might set him right. She didn’t
know much about such things, but she had always heard that
it was extraordinary how people got cured out there.

“That’s true,” he said. “I’ve heard that people who
couldn’t live a week in England, who haven’t the length of
your finger of lung left, can go on all right out there. I might
get something to do out there, and the boy might come out
after us.”

“That’s the way I like to hear you talk. Who knows,
at Newmarket we might have luck! Just one big bet, a
winner at fifty to one, that’s all we want.”

“ That’s just what has been passing in my mind. I’ve got
particular information about the Cesarewitch and Cambridge-
shire. I could get the price you speak of—fifty to one against
the two, Matchbox and Chasuble—the double event, you
know. I’m inclined to go it. It’s my last chance.”

347

CHAPTER XLII

Wuen Matchbox galloped home the winner of the Cesare-
witch by five lengths, William was lying in his bed, seemingly
at death’s door. He had:remained out late one evening, had
caught cold, and his mouth was constantly filled with blood.
He was much worse, and could hardly take notice of the good
news. When he revived a little he said, ‘“ It has come too
late.” But when Chasuble was backed to win thousands at
ten to one, and Journeyman and Stack assured him that the
stable was quite confident of being able to pull it off, his
spirits revived. He spoke of hedging. ‘If,’ he said to
Esther, “ I was to get out at eight or nine to one I should be
able to leave you something, you know, in case of accidents.”
But he would not entrust laying off his bet to either Stack or
Journeyman ; he spoke of a cab and seeing to it himself. If
he did this the doctor assured him that it would not much
matter whether Chasuble won or lost. “ The best thing he
could do,” the doctor said, ‘‘ would be to become an indoor
patient at once. In the hospital he would be in an equable
temperature, and he would receive an attention which he
could not get at home.”

William did not like going into the hospital ; it would be a
bad omen. If he did, he felt sure that Chasuble would not
win.

“What has going or not going to the hospital to do with
Chasuble’s chance of winning the Cambridgeshire ?” said the
doctor. ‘‘ This window is loose in its sash, a draught comes
under the door and if you close out the draughts the atmo-
sphere of the room becomes stuffy. You’re thinking of going
abroad ; a fortnight’s nice rest is just what you want to set you
up for your journey.”

So he allowed himself to be persuaded ; he was taken to the
hospital, and Esther remained at home waiting for the fateful

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348

afternoon. Now that the dying man was taken from her she
had no work to distract her thought. The unanswerable
question—would Chasuble win ?—was always before her.
She saw the slender greyhound creatures as she had seen them
at Epsom, through a sea of heads and hats, and she asked her-
self if Chasuble was the brown horse that had galloped in first,
or the chestnut that had trotted in last. She often thought
she was going mad—her head seemed like it—a sensation of
splitting like a piece of calico. She went to see her boy, a
great tall fellow of fifteen, who had happily lost none of his
affection for his mother, and great sweetness rose up within
her as she looked at his long, straight, yellow-stockinged legs,
and settled the collar of his cloak, and slipped her fingers into
his leathern belt as they walked side by side. He was bare-
headed, according to the fashion of his school, and she kissed
the wild, dark curls with which his head was run over ; they
were much brighter in colour when he was a little boy—those
days when she slaved seventeen hours a day for his dear life !
But he paid her back tenfold for the hardship she had under-
gone, and she listened to the excellent report his masters
gave of his progress, and walked through the quadrangles and
the corridors with him, thinking of the sound of his voice as he
told her the story of his classes and his studies. She must
live for him ; though for herself she had had enough of life.
But, thank God, she had her darling boy, and whatever
unhappiness there might be in store for her she would bear it
for his sake. He knew that his father was ill, but she checked
her tongue and told him no word of the tragedy that was
hanging over them, for the noble instincts which were so
intrinsically Esther’s told her that it were a pity to soil at the
outset a young life with a sordid story, and, though it would
have been a great relief to her to have shared her trouble with
her boy, she forced back her tears and bore her cross alone,
without once allowing its edge to touch him.

And every day that visitors were allowed she went to the
hospital with the newspaper containing the last betting

349
** Chasuble, ten to one taken,” William read out. The mare
had advanced three points, and William looked at Esther
inquiringly, and with hope in his eyes.
“T think she’ll win,” he said, raising himself in his cane

“TI hope so, dear,” she murmured, and she settled his
cushions.

Two days after the mare was back again at thirteen to one
taken and offered ; she went back even as far as eighteen to
one, and then returned for a while to twelve to exe. This
fluctuation meant that something was wrong, and William
began to lose hope. But on the following day the mare was
backed to win a good deal of money at Tattersall’s, and once
more she stood at ten to one. Seeing her back at the old
price made William look so hopeful that a patient stopped as
he passed down the corridor, and, catching sight of the Sports-
man on William’s lap, he asked him if he was interested in
racing. William told him that he was, and that if Chasuble
won he would be able to go to Egypt.

‘Them that has money can buy health as well as every-
thing else. We'd all get well if we could get out there.”

William told him how much he stood to win.

“ That'll keep you going long enough to set you straight.
You say the mare’s backed at ten to one—two hundred to
twenty. I wonder if I could get the money. I might sell up
the ’ouse.”

But before he had time to realise the necessary money the
mare was driven back to eighteen to one, and he said :

“She won’t win. I might as well'leave the wife in the
’ouse. There’s no luck for them that comes ’ere.”

On the day of the race Esther walked through the streets
like one daft, stupidly interested in the passers-by and the
disputes that arose between the drivers of cabs and omnibuses.
Now and then her thoughts collected, and it seemed to her
impossible that the mare should win. If she did they would

have £2500, and would go to Egypt. But she could not

-

350

imagine such a thing ; it seemed so much more natural that
the mare should lose, and that her husband should die, and that
she should have to face the world once more. She offered up
prayers that Chasuble might win, although it did not seem
right to address God on the subject, but her heart so often felt
like breaking that she had to do something. God would for-
give her. But now that the day had come she did not feel as if
He had granted her request. Yet it did not seem that her
husband was going to die.

She stopped at the “ Bell and Horns ” to see what the time
was, and was surprised to find it was half an hour later than
she had expected. The race was being run, Chasuble’s hoofs
were deciding whether her husband was to live or die. It was
on the wire by this time. The wires were distinct upon a blue
and dove-coloured sky. Did that one go to Newmarket, or
the other? Which?

The red building came in sight, and a patient walked
slowly up the walk, his back turned to her; another had sat
down to rest. Sixteen years ago patients were walking there,
and the leaves were scattering then just as now. She began
to wonder when the first boy would appear with the news.
William was not in the grounds ; he was upstairs behind those
windows. Poor fellow, she could fancy him sitting there.
Perhaps he was watching for her out of one of those windows.
But there was no use her going up until she had the news ;
she must wait for the paper. She walked up and down
listening for the cry. Every now and then expectation led her
to mistake some ordinary cry for the terrible ‘“‘ Win-ner, all the
win-ners,” with which the whole town would echo in a few
minutes. She hastened forward. No, it was not it. At last
she heard the word shrieked behind her. She hastened after
the boy, but failed to overtake him. Returning, she met
another, gave him a halfpenny and took a paper. Then she
remembered she must ask the boy to tell her who won. But
heedless of her question he had run across the road to sell
papers to some men who had come out of a public-house.

351
She must not give William the paper and wait for him to read
the news to her. If the news were bad the shock might kill
him. She must learn first what the news was, so that her face
and manner might prepare him for the worst if need be. So
she offered the paper to the porter and asked him to tell her.
“ Bramble, King of Trumps, Young Hopeful,” he read out.

“ Are you sure that Chasuble hasn’t won ?”

“‘ Of course I’m sure, there it is.”

“T can’t read,” she said as she turned away.

The news had stunned her; the world seemed to lose
reality ; she was uncertain what to do, and several times
repeated to herself, “ There’s nothing for it but to go up and
tell him. I don’t see what else I can do.” The staircase was
very steep ; she climbed it slowly, and stopped at the first
landing and looked out of the window. A poor hollow-chested
creature, the wreck of a human being, struggled up behind her.
He had to rest several times, and in the hollow building his
cough sounded loud and sepulchral. “ It isn’t generally so
loud as that,”’ she thought, and wondered how she could tell
William the news. “ He wanted to see Jack grow up to be a
man. He thought that we might all go to Egypt, and that
he’d get quite well there, for there’s plenty of sunshine there,
but now he'll have to make up his mind to die in the November
fogs.” Her thoughts came strangely clear, and she was
astonished at her indifference, until a sudden revulsion of
feeling took her as she was going up the last flight. She
couldn’t tell him the news; it was too cruel. She let the
patient pass her, and when alone on the landing she looked
down into the depth. She thought she’d like to fall over ;
anything rather than to do what she knew she must do. But
her cowardice only endured for a moment, and with a firm
step she walked into the corridor. It seemed to cross the
entire building, and was floored and wainscoted with the same
brown varnished wood as the staircase. There were benches
along the walls ; and emaciated and worn-out men lay on the
long cane chairs in the windowed recesses by which the

-

352

passage was lighted. The wards, containing sometimes three,
sometimes six or seven beds, opened on to this passage. The
doors of the wards were all open, and as she passed along she
started at the sight of a boy sitting up in bed. His head had
been shaved, and only a slight bristle covered the crown.
The head and face were a large white mass with two eyes.

At the end of the passage there was a window; and
William sat there reading a book. He saw her before she
saw him, and when she caught sight of him she stopped,
holding the paper loose before her between finger and thumb,
and as she approached she saw that her manner had already
broken the news to him.

“‘ T see that she didn’t win,” he said.

af! No, dear, she didn’t win. We wasn’t lucky this time ;

3”?

next time

“ There is no next time, at least for me. I shall be far
away from here when flat racing begins again. The November
fogs will do for me, I feel that they will. I hope there'll be no
lingering, that’s all. Better to know the worst and make up
your mind. So I have to go, have I? So there’s no hope,
and I shall be under ground before the next meeting. I shall
never lay or take the odds again. It do seem strange. If
only that mare had won. I knew damned well she wouldn’t
if I came here.”

Then, catching sight of the pained look on his wife’s face,
he said, “ I don’t suppose it made no difference ; it was to be,
and what has to be has to be. I’ve got to go under ground.
I felt it was to be all along. Egypt would have done me no
good ; I never believed in it—only a lot of false hope. You
don’t think what I say is true. Look ’ere, do you know what
book this is? This is the Bible ; that'll prove to you that I
knew the game was up. I knew, I can’t tell you how, but I
knew the mare wouldn’t win. You always seems to know.
Even when I backed her I didn’t feel about her like I did about
the other one, and ever since I’ve been feeling more and more
sure that it wasn’t to be. Somehow it didn’t seem likely, and

353
to-day something told me that the game was up, so I asked for
this book. . . . There’s wonderful, beautiful things in it.”

“ There is, indeed, Bill; and I hope you won’t get tired of
it, but will go on reading it.”

“It’s extraordinary how consoling it is. Listen to this.
Isn’t it beautiful ; ain’t them words heavenly ?”

“ They is, indeed. I knew you’d come to God at last.”

“T’'m afraid I’ve not led a good life. I wouldn’t listen to
you when you used to tell me of the lot of harm the betting
used to bring on the poor people what used to come to our
place. There’s Sarah, I suppose she’s out of prison by this.
You've seen nothing of her, I suppose ?”

“No, nothing.”

“There was Ketley.”

“No, Bill, don’t let’s think about it. If you’re truly sorry,
God will forgive.”

“Do you think He will—and the others that we know
nothing about ? I wouldn’t listen to you ; I was headstrong,
but I understand it all now. My eyes ’ave been opened.
Them pious folk that got up the prosecution knew what they
was about. I forgive them one and all.”

William coughed a little. The conversation paused, and
the cough was repeated down the corridor. Now it came
from the men lying on the long cane chairs; now from the
poor emaciated creature, hollow cheeks, brown eyes and
beard, who had just come out of his ward and had sat down on
a bench by the wall. Now it came from an old man six feet
high, with snow-white hair. He sat near them, and worked
assiduously at a piece of tapestry. “‘ It'll be better when it’s
cut,” he said to one of the nurses, who had stopped to compli-
ment him on his work ; “ it’ll be better when it’s cut.””’, Then
the cough came from one of the wards, and Esther thought of
the fearsome boy sitting bolt up, his huge tallow-like face
staring through the silence of the room. A moment after the
cough came from her husband’s lips, and they looked
at each other. Both wanted to speak, and neither knew

—

354
what to say. At last William spoke.

“ T was saying that I never had that feeling about Chasuble
that you ’as about a winner. Did she run second? Just like
my luck if she did. Let me see the paper.”

Esther handed it to him. «

“‘ Bramble, a fifty to one chance, not one man in a hundred
backed her; King of Trumps, there was some place money
lost on him; Young Hopeful, a rank outsider. What a day
for the bookies !”’

“You mustn’t think of them things no more,” said Esther.
“You've got the Book ; it’ll do you more good.”

“ Tf I’d only have thought of Bramble. I could have had a
hundred to one against Matchbox and Bramble coupled.”

_ “ What’s the use of thinking of things that’s over? We
should think of the future.”

“ If I’d only been able to hedge that bet I should have been
able to leave you something to go on with, but now, when
everything is paid for, you'll have hardly a five-pound note.
You’ve been a good wife to me, and I’ve been a bad husband
to you.”

“ Bill, you mustn’t speak like that. You must try to make
your peace with God. Think of Him. He’ll think of us that
you leave behind. I’ve always had faith in Him. He’ll not
desert me.”

Her eyes were quite dry; the instinct of life seemed to
have left her. They spoke some little while longer, until it
was time for visitors to leave the hospital. It was not until
she got into the Fulham Road that tears began to run down her
cheeks ; they poured faster and faster, like rain after long dry
weather. The whole world disappeared in a mist of tears.
And so overcome was she by her grief that she had to lean
against the railings, and the passers-by turned and looked at
her curiously. :

355

CHAPTER XLIII

Wits fair weather he might hold on till Christmas, but if
much fog was about he would go off earlier, with the last
leaves. One day Esther received a letter asking her to defer
her visit from Friday to Sunday, for he hoped to be better on
Sunday, and then they would arrange when she should come
to take him away. He wanted to see his boy before he died.

Mrs. Collins, a woman who lived in the next room, read the
letter to Esther.

“Tf you can, do as he wishes. Once they gets them
fancies into their heads there’s no getting them out.”

“Tf he leaves the hospital on a day like this it’ll be the
death of him.” The street lamps burnt low, mournful, as
in a city of the dead, and the sounds that rose out of the
street added to the terror of the strange darkness. ‘‘ What
do he say about Jack? That I’m to send for him. It’s
natural he should like to see the boy before he goes, but it
would be cheerfuller to take him to the hospital.”

“You see, he wants to die at home ; he wants you to be
with him at the last.”

“‘ Yes, I want to see the last of him. But the boy, where’s
he to sleep ?”

“We can lay a mattress down in my room—an old woman
like me, it don’t matter.”

Sunday morning was harsh and cold, and when she came
out of South Kensington Station a fog was thickening in the
squares, and a great drift of yellow cloud settled down upon
the house-tops. In the Fulham Road the tops of the houses
disappeared, and the light of the third gas-lamp was not
visible.

“This is the sort of weather that takes them off. I can
hardly breathe it myself.”

Everything was shadow-like ; those walking in front of

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356

her passed out of sight. like shades, and once she thought she
must have missed her way, though that was impossible, for her
way was quite straight. Suddenly the silhouette of the
winged building rose up enormous on the sulphur sky. The
low-lying gardens were full of poisonous vapour, and the
thin trees seemed like the ghosts of consumptive men. The
porter coughed like a dead man as she passed, and he said,
“‘ Bad weather for the poor sick ones upstairs.”

She was‘prepared for a change for the worse, but she did not
expect to see a living man looking so like a dead one.

He could no longer lie back in bed and breathe, so he was
propped up with pillows, and he looked even as shadow-like as
those she had half seen in the fog-cloud. There was fog even
in the ward, and the lights burned red in the silence. There
were five beds—low iron bedsteads—and each was covered
with a dark red rug. In the farthest corner lay the wreck of a
great working man. He wore his hobnails and his corduroys,
and his once brawny arm lay along his thigh, shrivelled and
powerless as a child’s. In the middle of the room a little
clerk, wasted and weary, without any strength at all, lay
striving for breath. The navvy was alone; the little clerk
had his family round him—his wife and his two children, a
baby in arms and a little boy three years old. The doctor had
Just come in, and the woman was prattling gaily about her
confinement. She said:

“I was up the following week. Wonderful what we
women can go through. No one would thinkit. Brought the
youngsters to see their father ; they is a little idol to him, poor
fellow.”

“ How are you to-day, dearie ?”’ Esther said, as she took a
seat by her husband’s bed.

“ Better than I was on Friday, but this weather’ll do for me
if it continues much longer. You see them two beds? They
died yesterday, and I’ve ’eard that three or four that left the
hospital are gone, too.”

The doctor came to William’s bed. “ Well, are you

357
still determined to go home ?” he said.

“Yes; I’d like to die at home. You can’t do nothing
forme. I’d like to die at home ; I want to see my boy.”

“You can see Jack here,” said Esther.

“Td sooner see hini at ome. I suppose you don’t want the
trouble of a death in the ’ouse.”

“Oh, William, how can you speak so!” The patient
coughed painfully, and leaned against the pillows, unable to
speak.

Esther remained with William till the time permitted to
visitors expired. He couldn’t speak to her, but she knew he
liked her to be with him.

When she came on Thursday to take him away, he was a
little better. The clerk’s wife was chattering; the great
navvy lay in the corner, still as a block of stone. Esther
often looked at him and wondered if he had no friend who
could spare an hour to come and see him.

“I was beginning to think that you wasn’t coming,” said
William.

“He’s that restless,” said the clerk’s wife; ‘‘ asking the
time every three or four minutes.”

“ How could you think that ?” said Esther.

“TIT dunno. You're a bit late, aren’t you?”
said the clerk’s wife.

2?

“Tt often do make them restless,
“ But my poor old man is quiet enough—aren’t you, dear ?”’
The dying clerk couldn’t answer, and the woman turned again
to Esther.

“* And how do you find him to-day ?”

“Much the same. I think he’s a bit better and stronger.
But this weather is so trying. I don’t know how it was up
your way, but down my way I never seed such a fog. I
thought I’d have to turn back.” At that moment the baby
began to cry, and the woman walked up and down the ward,
rocking it violently, talking loud, and making a great deal of
noise. But she could not quiet him. ‘‘ Hungry again,’’ she
said “I never seed such a child for the breast,’’ and she sat

358

down and unbuttoned her dress. When the young doctor
entered she hurriedly covered herself; he begged her to
continue, and spoke about her little boy. She showed him a
scar on his throat. He had been suffering, but it was all right
now. The doctor glanced at the breathless father.

“A little better to-day, thank you, doctor.” \

‘* That’s all right ;” and the doctor went over to William.

“ Are you still bent to leave the hospital ?” he said.

“Yes, I want to gohome. I want to——”

“You'll find this weather very trying ; you'd better *

“No, thank you, sir. I should like to go home. You've

been very kind ; you’ve done everything that could be done
forme. But it’s God’s will. My wife is very grateful to you,
too.”

“ Yes, that I am, sir. However am I to thank you for your
kindness to my husband ?”

“T’m sorry I couldn’t do more. But you'll want the sister
to help you to dress him. I'll send her to you.”

When they got him out of bed, Esther was shocked at the
_ spectacle of his poor body, for there was nothing left of him.
His poor chest, his wasted ribs, his legs gone to nothing, and
the strange weakness, worst of all, which made it so hard for
them to dress him. At last it was nearly done: Esther laced
one boot, the nurse the other, and, leaning on Esther’s arm,
he looked round the room for the last time. The navvy
turned round on his bed and said :

““ Good-bye, mate.” ’

‘““ Good-bye. Good-bye, all.”

The clerk’s little son clung to his mother’s skirt, frightened
at the weakness of so big a man.

“Go and say good-bye to the gentleman.”

The little boy came forward timidly, offering his hand.
William looked at the poor little white face ; he nodded to the
father and went out.

As he went downstairs he said he would like to go home in a
hansom. The doctor and nurse expostulated, but he per-

359
sisted until Esther begged of him to forgo the wish for her sake.

“ They do rattle so, these four-wheelers, especially when the
windows are up. You can’t hear yourself speak.”

The cab jogged up Piccadilly, and as it climbed out of the
hollow the dying mari’s eyes were fixed on the circle of lights
that shone across the Green Park. They looked like a
distant village, and Esther wondered if William was thinking of
Shoreham—she had seen Shoreham look like that sometimes
—or if he was thinking that he was looking on London for the
last time. Was he saying to himself, “‘ I shall never, never see
Piccadilly again” ? They passed St. James’s Street. The
Circus, with its mob of prostitutes, came into view; the
“ Criterion ” bar, with its loafers standing outside. William
leaned a little forward, and Esther was sure he was thinking
that he would never go into that bar again. The cab turned to
the left, and Esther said that it would cross Soho, perhaps pass
down Old Compton Street, opposite their old house. It
happened that it did, and Esther and William wondered who
were the new people who were selling beer and whisky in the
bar. All the while boys were crying, “ Win-ner, all the
win-ners !”

“ihe
this year.”

Esther did not answer. The cab passed over a piece of

was run to-day. Flat racing all over, all over for

asphalt, and he said :

“Ts Jack waiting for us ?”

“Yes, he came home yesterday.”

The fog was thick in Bloomsbury, and when he got out of the
cab he was taken with a fit of coughing, and had to cling to the
railings. She had to pay the cab. It took some time to find
the money. Would no one open the door? At last, having
got her change, she followed him into the house.

“Tcanmanage. Goon first ; I'll follow.”

And stopping every three or four steps for rest, he slowly
dragged himself up to the first landing. A door opened and
Jack stood on the threshold of the lighted room.

360

“Is that you, mother ?”

“Yes, dear; your father is coming up.”

The boy came forward to help, but his mother whispered,
‘‘ He’d rather come up by himself.”

He had strength to walk into the room; they gave him
a chair, and he looked round, and seemed pleased to see his
home again. Esther gave him some milk, into which she had
put a little brandy, and he gradually revived.

“Come this way, Jack ; I want to look at you; come into
the light where I can see you.”

“Yes, father.”

“ T haven’t long to see you, Jack. I wanted to be with you
and your mother in our own home. I can talk a little now ;
I may not be able to to-morrow.”

“Yes, father.”

‘“‘T want you to promise me, Jack, that you'll never have
nothing to do with racing and betting. It hasn’t brought me
or your mother any luck.”

“Very well, father.”

“You promise me, Jack. Give me your hand. You
promise me that, Jack ?”

“Yes, father, I promise.”

“T see it all clearly enough now. Your mother, Jack,
is the best woman in the world. She loved you better than I
did. She worked for you—that is a sad story. I hope you'll
never hear it.”

Husband and wife looked at each other, and in that look the
wife promised the husband that the son should never know the
story of her desertion.

“She was always against the betting, Jack; she always
knew it would bring us ill luck. I was once well off, but
I lost everything. No good comes of money that you don’t
work for.”

“T’m sure you worked enough for what you won,” said
Esther; “travelling day and night from racecourse to
racecourse. Standing on them racecourses in all weathers ;

361
it was the colds you caught standing on them racecourses that
began the mischief.”

“T worked hard enough, that’s true; but it was not the
right kind of work. I can’t argue, Esther. But I know the
truth now, what you always said was the truth. No good
' comes of money that hasn’t been properly earned.” .

He sipped the brandy and milk and looked at Jack, who
was crying bitterly.

“You mustn’t cry like that, Jack ; I want you to listen to
me. I've still something on my mind. Your mother, Jack,
is the best woman that ever lived. You're too young to
understand how good. I didn’t know how good for a long
time, but I found it all out in time, as you will later, Jack,
when you are aman. I’d hoped to see you grow up to be a
man, Jack, and your mother and I thought that you’d have a
nice bit of money. But the money I hoped to leave you is all
gone. What I feel most is that I’m leaving you and your
mother as badly off as she was when I married her.” He
heaved a deep sigh, and Esther said :

“What is the good of talking of these things, weakening
yourself for nothing ?”

“T must speak, Esther. I should die happy if I knew how
_ you and the boy was going to live. You'll have to go out and
work for him as you did before. It will be like beginning it all
again.”

The tears rolled down his cheeks ; he buried his face in his
hands and sobbed, until the sobbing brought on a fit of cough-
ing. Suddenly his mouth filled with blood. Jack went for
the doctor, and all remedies were tried without avail. “There
is one more remedy,” the doctor said, “ and if that fails you
must prepare for the worst.” But this last remedy proved
successful, and the hemorrhage was stopped, and William
was undressed and put to bed. The doctor said, ‘‘ He
mustn’t get up to-morrow.”

“ You lie in bed to-morrow, and try to get up your strength.
You’ve overdone yourself to-day.”

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362

She had drawn his bed into the warmest corner, close by the
fire, and had made up for herself a sort of bed by the window,
where she might doze a bit, for she did not expect to get
much sleep. She would have to be up and down many times
to settle his pillows and give him milk or a little weak brandy
and water. 2

Night wore away, the morning grew into day, and about
twelve o’clock he insisted on getting up. She tried to
persuade him, but he said he could not stop in bed; and there
was nothing for it but to ask Mrs. Collins to help her dress
him. The cough had entirely ceased, and on Saturday night
he slept better than he had done for a long while, and woke up
on Sunday morning refreshed to eat a nice bit of boiled rabbit
for his dinner. Esther fancied that he was still thinking of
them. And when the afternoon waned, about four o'clock,
he called Jack ; he told him to sit in the light where he could
see him, and he looked at his son with such wistful eyes that
Esther had to turn aside to hide her tears.

“ I should have liked to have seen you a man, Jack.”

“ Don’t speak like that—I can’t bear it,”’ said the poor boy,
bursting into tears. “ Perhaps you won’t die yet.”

“Yes, Jack; I’m wore out. I can feel,” he said, pointing
to his chest, “ that there is nothing here to live upon. Itis the
punishment come upon me.”

“* Punishment for what, father ?”

“T wasn’t always good to your mother, Jack.”

“ If to please me, William, you'll say no more.”

“ The boy ought to know ; it will be a lesson for him, and it
weighs upon my heart.”

“I don’t want my boy to hear anything bad about his
father, and I forbid him to listen.”

The conversation paused, and soon after William said that
his strength was going from him, and that he would like to go
back to bed. Esther helped him off with his clothes, and
together she and Jack lifted him into bed.

“ It is hard to part from you,” he said. “ If Chasuble had

363
won we would have all gone to Egypt. I could have lived out
there.”

“You must speak of them things no more. We all must
obey God’s will.” Esther dropped on her knees; she drew
Jack down beside her. William asked Jack to read something
from the Bible, and Jack read where he first opened the book,
and when he had finished William said that he liked to listen,
for Jack’s voice sounded to him like heaven.

About eight o’clock William bade his son good night.

“Good night, my boy ; perhaps we shan’t see each other
again. This may be my last night.”

“IT won’t leave you, father.”

“No, my boy, go to your bed. I feel I’d like to be alone

with mother.” The voice sank almost to a whisper.

“You'll remember what you promised me about racing.
Be good to your mother—she’s the best mother a son ever
had.”

“Tl work for mother, father, I’ll work for her.”

“You’re too young, my son, but when you're older I
hope you'll work for her. She worked for you. Good-bye,
my boy.”

The dying man sweated profusely, and Esther wiped his
face from time to time. Mrs. Collins came in. She had a
large tin candlestick in her hand in which there was a frag-
ment of candle end. He motioned to her to put it aside.
She put it on the table out of the way of his eyes.

“You'll help Esther to lay me out. I don’t want anyone
else. I don’t like the other woman.”

“ Esther and me will lay you out, make your mind easy ;
none but we two shall touch you.”

Once more Esther wiped his forehead, and he signed to
her how he wished the bedclothes to be arranged, for he could
no longer speak. Mrs. Collins whispered to Esther that she
did not think that the end could be far off, and, compelled by a
morbid sort of curiosity she took a chair and sat down. Esther
wiped away the little drops of sweat as they came upon his

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364
forehead ; his chest and'throat had to be wiped also, for they
too were full of sweat. All the while his eyes were fixed on
the darkness and he moved his hand restlessly, and Esther
always understood what he wanted. She gave him a little
brandy and water, and when he could not take it from the
glass she gave it to him with a spoon. :

The silence seemed to grow more solemn, and as Esther
turned from the bedside for the brandy, Mrs. Collins’ candle
spluttered and went out ; a little thread of smoke evaporated,
leaving only a morsel of blackened wick; the flame had
disappeared for ever, gone as if it had never been, and Esther
saw darkness where there had been a light.

“ T think it is all over, dear.”

The profile on the pillow seemed very little.

‘Hold up his head, so that if there is any breath it may
come on the glass.”

“‘He’s dead, right enough. You see, dear, there’s not a
trace of breath on the glass.”

“T’d like to say a prayer. Will you say a prayer with
me ?”

‘Yes, I feel as if I should like to myself; it eases the
heart wonderful.”

CHAPTER XLIV

Sue stood on the platform watching the receding train. The
white steam curled above the few bushes that hid the curve of
the line, evaporating in the pale evening. A moment more
and the last carriage would pass out of sight, the white gates at
the crossing swinging slowly forward to let through the
impatient passengers.

An oblong box painted reddish brown lay on the seat
beside a woman of seven or eight and thirty, stout and
strongly built, short arms and hard-worked hands, dressed in
dingy black skirt and a threadbare jacket too thin for the

365

dampness of a November day. Her face was a blunt outline,
and the grey eyes reflected all the natural prose of the Saxon.

The porter told her that he would try to send her box up to
Woodview to-morrow. That was the way to Woodview,
right up the lane. She could not miss it. She would find the
lodge gate behind that clump of trees. And thinking how she
could get her box to Woodview that evening, she looked at the
barren strip of country lying between the downs and the
shingle beach. The little town clamped about its deserted
harbour seemed more than ever like falling to pieces like a
derelict vessel, and when Esther passed over the level crossing
she noticed that the line of little villas had not increased ;
they were as she had left them eighteen years ago, laurels,
iron railing, antimacassars. For it was about eighteen years
ago, on a beautiful June day, that she passed up this lane for
the first time. At the very spot she was now passing she
stopped to wonder if she would be able to keep the place of
kitchenmaid, and she remembered regretting that she
hadn’t a new dress. The sun was shining, and she met
William leaning over the paling in the avenue smoking his
pipe. Eighteen years had gone by, eighteen years of labour,
suffering, disappointment. A great deal had happened, so
much that she could not remember it all. The situations she
had been in; her life with that dear good soul, Miss Rice ;
then Fred Parsons; then William again: her marriage, the
life in the public-house, money lost and money won, heart-
breakings, death, everything that could happen had happened
to her. And now it all seemed like a dream. No, her boy
remained to her. Thank God for that ; she had been able to
bring him up. But how had she done it? How often had
she found herself within sight of the workhouse? No later
than last week it had seemed that she would have to accept
the workhouse once more. But slie had escaped, and now
here she was back at the very poii.t from which she started,
going back to Woodview, going back to Mrs. Barfield’s
service.

366

William’s illness and his funeral had taken Esther's last
few pounds away from her, and when she and Jack came back
from the cemetery she found that she had broken into her last
sovereign. She clasped him to her bosom—he was a tall boy
of fifteen—and burst into tears. But she did not tell him
what she was crying for. She did not say, “ God only knows
how we shall find bread to eat next week ;” she merely said,
wiping away her tears, “ We can’t afford to live here any
longer. It’s too expensive for us now that father’s gone.”
And they went to live in a slum for three and sixpence a
week. If she had been alone in the world she would have
gone into a situation, but she could not leave the boy, and so
she had to look out for charring. It was hard to have to come
down to this, particularly when she remembered that she had
had a house and a servant of her own; but there was nothing
for it but to look out for some charring, and get along as best she
could till Jack was able to look after himself. But the various
scrubbings and general cleaning that had come her way had
been so badly paid that she soon found that she could not
make both ends meet. She would have to leave her boy and
go out as a general servant. And as her necessities were
pressing, she accepted a situation in a coffee-shop in the
London Road. She would give all her wages to Jack, seven
shillings a week, and he would have to live on that. So long as
she had her health she didn’t mind.

It was a squat brick building with four windows that looked
down on the pavement with a short-sighted stare. On each
window was written in letters of white enamel, ‘‘ Well-aired
beds.” A board nailed to a post by the side door announced
that tea and coffee were always ready. On the other side of
the sign was an upholsterer’s, and the vulgar brightness of the
Brussels carpets seemed in keeping with the sloplike appear-
ance of the coffee-house.

Sometimes a workman came in the morning; a couple
more might come in about dinner-time. Sometimes they
took rashers and bits of steak out of their pockets.

367

“Won’t you cook this for me, missis ?”

But it was not until about nine in the evening that the real
business of the house began, and it continued till one, when
the last straggler knocked for admittance. The house lived
on its beds. The best rooms were sometimes let for eight
shillings a night, and there were four beds which were let at
fourpence a night in the cellar under the area where Esther
stood by the great copper washing sheets, blankets, and
counterpanes when she was not cleaning the rooms upstairs.
There was a double-bedded room underneath the kitchen,
and over the landings, wherever a space could be found, the
landlord, who was clever at carpentering work, had fitted up
some sort of closet place that could be let as a bedroom. The
house was a honeycomb. The landlord slept under the roof,
and a corner had been found for his housekeeper, a handsome
young woman, at the end of the passage. Esther and the
children—the landlord was a widower—slept in the coffee-
room upon planks laid across the tops of the high backs of the
benches where the customers mealed. Mattresses and bedding
were laid on these planks, and the sleepers lay with their faces
hardly two feet from the ceiling. Esther slept with the baby,
a little boy of five; the two big boys slept at the other end
of the room by the front door. The eldest was about fifteen,
but he was only half-witted ; and he helped in the housework,
and could turn down the beds and see quicker than anyone if
the occupant had stolen sheet or blanket. Esther always
remembered how he would raise himself up in bed in the early
morning, rub the glass, and light a candle so that he could be
seen from below. He shook his head if every bed was occupied,
or signed with his fingers the prices of the beds if they had
any to let.

The landlord, a tall, thin man, with long features and hair
turning grey, was a quiet man, and Esther was surprised one
night at the abruptness with which he stopped a couple who
were going upstairs.

“Ts that your wife ?” he said.

368

“ Yes, she’s my wife: all right.”

“She don’t look very old.”

“* She’s older than she looks.”

Then he said, half to Esther, half to his housekeeper, that
it was hard to know what to do. If you asked them for their
marriage certificates they’d be sure to show yow something.
The housekeeper answered that they paid well, and that was
the principal thing. But when an attempt was made to steal
the bedclothes the landlord and his housekeeper were more
severe. As Esther was about to let a most respectable woman
out of the front door, the idiot boy called down the stairs,
“Stop her! There’s a sheet missing.”

“Oh, what in the world is all this? I haven’t got your
sheet. Pray let me pass; I’m in a hurry.”

““T can’t let you pass until the sheet is found.”

“You'll find it upstairs under the bed. It’s got mislaid.
I’m in a hurry.”

“ Call in the police,” shouted the idiot boy.

“ You’d better come upstairs and help me to find the sheet,”
said Esther.

The woman hesitated a moment, and then walked up in
front of Esther. When they were in the bedroom she shook
out her petticoats, and the sheet fell on the floor.

* There, now,” said Esther, “ a nice botheration you'd ’ve
got me into. I should ’ve had to pay for it.”

“Oh, I could pay for it; it was only because I’m not very
well off at present.”

“Yes, you mill pay for it if you don’t take care,” said
Esther.

It was very soon after that Esther had her mother’s books
stolen from her. They had not been doing much business,
and she had been put to sleep in one of the bedrooms. The
room was suddenly wanted, and she had no time to move all
her things, and when she went to make up the room she found
that her mother’s books and a pair of jet earrings that Fred
had given her were stolen. She could do nothing ; the couple

369

who occupied the room were far away by this time. There
was no hope of ever recovering her books and earrings ; and
the loss of these things caused her a great deal of unhappiness.
The only little treasure she possessed were those earrings
Everything had gone from her ; she was alone in the world,
and if her health were to break down to-morrow she would
have to go to the workhouse. What would become of her
boy? She was afraid to think; for thinking did no good.
She mustn’t think, but must just work on, washing the bed-
clothes until she could wash no longer. Wash, wash, all the
week long ; and it was only by working on till one o’clock in
the morning that she sometimes managed to get the Sabbath
free from washing. Never, not even in the house in Chelsea,
had she had such hard work, and she was not as strong now
as she was then. But her courage did not give way until one
Sunday Jack came to tell her that the people who employed
him had sold their business.

Then a strange weakness came over her. She thought of
the endless week of work that awaited her in the cellar, the
great copper on the fire, the heaps of soiled linen in the corner,
the steam rising from the wash-tub, and she felt she had not
enough strength to get through another week of such work.
She looked at her son with despair in her eyes. She had whis-
pered to him as he lay asleep under her shawl, a tiny infant,
“ There is nothing for us, my poor boy, but the workhouse,”
and the same thought rose up in her mind as she looked at
him, a tall lad with large grey eyes and dark curling hair. But
she didn’t trouble him with her despair. She merely said :

“‘T don’t know how we shall pull through, Jack. God will
help us.”

“You're washing too hard, mother. You're wasting away ,
Do you know no one, mother, who could help us ?”

She looked at Jack fixedly, and she thought of Mrs. Barfield.
Mrs. Barfield might be away in the South with her daughter.
If she were at Woodview Esther felt sure that she would not
refuse to help her. So Jack wrote at Esther’s dictation, and

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370

before they expected an answer, a letter came from Mrs.
Barfield saying that she remembered Esther perfectly well.
She had just returned from the South. She was all alone at —
Woodview, and wanted a servant. Esther could come and
take the place if she liked. She enclosed five pounds, and
hoped that the money would enable Esther to Yeave London
at once.

But this returning to former conditions filled Esther with
strange trouble. Her heart beat as she recognised the spire
of the church between the trees, and the undulating line of
downs behind the trees awakened terrible recollections. She
knew the white gate was somewhere in this plantation, but
could not remember its exact position. The gate had fallen
from its hinge, and the lodge where the blind gatekeeper
used to play the flute was closed ; the park paling was falling,
and the great holly hedge worn away by wandering sheep
and cattle ; and an elm in falling had broken through the
garden wall.

On arriving at the iron gate under the bunched ilexes her
steps paused, for it was there she met William for the first
time, and the memory stung her. He had taken her through
the stables and pointed out to her Silver Braid’s box! She
remembered the horses going to the downs, horses coming
from the downs—stabling and the sound of hoofs everywhere.
But now silence. She could see that many a roof had fallen,
and that ruins of outhouses filled the yard. She remembered
the kitchen windows, bright in the setting sun, and the white-
capped servants moving about the great white table. But
now the shutters were up, nowhere a light ; the knocker had
disappeared from the door, and she asked herself how she
was to get in. She even felt afraid. Supposing she should
not find Mrs, Barfield. She made her way through the
shrubbery, tripping over fallen branches and trunks of trees ;
rooks rose out of the evergreens with a great clatter, her
heart stood still, and she hardly dared to tear herself through
the mass of underwood. At last she gained the lawn, and,

371
still very frightened, sought for the bell. The socket plate
hung loose on the wire, and only a faint tinkle came through
the solitude of the empty house.

At last footsteps and a light ; the chained door was opened
a little, and a voice asked : ‘“‘ Who isit?”’ Esther explained ;
and then the door was opened, and she stood face to face with
her old mistress, Mrs. Barfield, who stood, holding the candle
high, so that she could see Esther. She had not changed very
much. She still kept her beautiful white teeth and her girlish
smile ; the pointed, vixen-like face had not altered in outline,
but the reddish hair was so thin that it had to be parted on
the side and drawn over the skull; her figure was delicate
and sprightly as ever. Esther noticed all this. Mrs. Barfield
noticed that Esther was stouter, and that her face kept that
look of blunt, honest nature which had always been her charm
in the years gone by, and was attractive in the thick-set
working woman of forty, who stood holding the hem of her
jacket in her rough hands.

“We'd better put the chain up, for I’m alone in the house.”

“ Aren’t you afraid, ma’am ?”

“A little, but there’s nothing to steal; and I asked the
policeman to keep a lookout.”

In the library were the round table, the little green sofa,
the piano, the parrot’s cage, and the yellow-painted presses ;
and it seemed only a little while since she was summoned
to this room, since she stood facing her mistress, her con-
fession on her lips. It seemed like yesterday, yet seventeen
years and more had gone by—a dream, the connecting links
of which were gone.

“* You’ve had a cold journey, Esther ; you'd like some tea ?”’

“* Oh, don’t trouble, ma’am.”

“It’s no trouble; I should like some myself. The fire’s
out in the kitchen, but we can boil the kettle here.”

_ They went through the baize door into the long passage.
Mrs. Barfield told Esther where was the pantry, the kitchen,
and the larder. Esther answered that she remembered quite

«-

372
well, and it seemed to. her not a little strange that she should
know these things. Mrs. Barfield said :
“So you haven’t forgotten Woodview, Esther ?”’
“No, ma’am. It seems like yesterday. But I’m afraid

the damp has got into the kitchen, ma’am, the range is that
\

neglected

** Ah, Woodview isn’t what it was.”

Mrs. Barfield told how she had buried her husband in the
old village church. She had taken her daughter to Egypt ;
and she dwindled till there was little more than a skeleton
to lay in the grave.

“ Yes, ma’am, I know how it takes them, inch by inch. My
husband died of consumption.”

- One thing led to another, and Esther gradually told Mrs.
Barfield the story of her life from the day they bade each other
good-bye in the room they were now sitting in.

“It is quite a romance, Esther.”

“It was a hard fight, and it isn’t over yet, ma’am. It won't
be over until I see him settled in some regular work. I hope
I shall live to see him settled.”

They sat over the fire | a long time. At last Mrs. Barfield
said :

“It must be getting on for bedtime.”

“IT suppose it must, ma’am.”

She asked if she should sleep in the room she had once
shared with Margaret Gale. Mrs. Barfield answered with a
sigh that as all the bedrooms were empty Esther had better
sleep in the room next to hers.

CHAPTER XLV

Estuer seemed to have quite naturally accepted Woodview
as a final stage. Any further change in her life she did not
seem to regard as possible or desirable. One of these days
her boy would get settled; he would come down now and

373
again to see her. She did not want any more than that. No,
she did not find the place lonely. A young girl might, but
she was no longer a young girl; she had her work to do, and
when it was done she was glad to sit down to rest.

And, dressed in long cloaks, the women went for walks
together ; sometimes they went up the hill, sometimes into
Southwick to make some little purchases. On Sundays they
walked to Beeding to attend meeting. And they came home
along the winter roads, the peace and happiness of prayer
upon their faces, holding their skirts out of the mud, un-
ashamed of their common boots. They made no acquaint-
ances, seeming to find in each other all necessary companion-
ship. Their heads bent a little forward, they trudged home,
talking of what they were in the habit of talking, that another
tree had been blown down, that Jack was now earning good
money—ten shillings a week. Esther hoped it would last.
Or else Esther told her mistress that she had heard that one
of Mr. Arthur’s horses had won a race. He lived in the
north of England, where he had a small training stable, and
his mother never heard of him except through the sporting
papers. “ He hasn’t been here for four years,’ Mrs. Barfield
said; “he hates the place; he wouldn’t care if I were to
burn it down to-morrow. However, I do the best I can,
hoping that one day he'll marry and come and live here.”

Mr. Arthur—that was how Mrs. Barfield and Esther spoke
of him—did not draw any income from the estate. The rents
only sufficed to pay the charges and the widow’s jointure. All
the land was let; the house he had tried to let, but it had
been found impossible to find a tenant, unless Mr. Arthur
would expend some considerable sum in putting the house and
grounds into a state of proper repair. This he did not care
to do; he said that he found racehorses a more profitable
speculation. Besides, even the park had been let on lease ;
nothing remained to him but the house and lawn and garden ;
he could no longer gallop a horse on the hill without some-
body’s leave, so he didn’t care what became of the place.

374

His mother might go on living there, keeping things together
as she called it ; he did not mind what she did as long as she
didn’t bother him. So did he express himself regarding
Woodview on the rare occasion of his visits, and when he
troubled to answer his mother’s letters. Mrs. Barfield, whose
thoughts were limited to the estate, was painéd by his in-
difference; she gradually ceased to consult him, and when
Beeding was too far for her to walk she had the furniture
removed from the drawing-room and a long deal table placed
there instead. She had not asked herself if Arthur would
object to her inviting a few Brethren to her house for meeting,
or publishing the meetings by notices posted on the lodge
gate. And one day, while walking in the avenue, they saw
Mr. Arthur open the white gate and come through. The
mother hastened forward to meet her son, but paused, dis-
mayed by the anger that looked out of his eyes. He did not
like the notices, and she was sorry that he was annoyed. She
didn’t think that he would mind them, and she hastened by
his side, pleading her excuses. But to her great sorrow
Arthur did not seem to be able to overcome his annoyance.
He refused to listen, and continued his reproaches, saying the
things that he knew would most pain her.

He did not care whether the trees stood or fell, whether
the cement remained upon the walls or dropped from them ;
he didn’t draw a penny of income from the place, and did not
care a damn what became of it. He allowed her to live
there ; she got her jointure out of the property, and he didn’t
want to interfere with her, but what he could not stand was
the snuffy little folk from Shoreham coming round his house.
The Barfields at least were county, and he wished Woodview
to remain county as long as the walls held together. He
wasn't a bit ashamed of all this ruin. You could receive the
Prince of Wales in a ruin, but he wouldn’t care to ask him
into a dissenting chapel. Mrs. Barfield answered that she
didn’t see how the mere assembling of a few friends in prayer
could disgrace a house. There was no place nearer than

375
Beading where they could meet, and she could no longer walk
so far, so she would have to give up meeting.

“Tt seems to me a strange taste to want to kneel down
with a lot of little shop-keepers. Is this where you kneel ?”
he said, pointing to the long deal table. ‘‘ The place is a
regular little Bethel.”’

“Our Lord said that when two or three should gather to-
gether for prayer, He would be among them. Those are true
words, and as we get old we feel more and more the want of
this communion of spirit. It is only then that we feel that
we're really with God. The folk that you despise are equal
in His sight. And living here alone, what should I be without
prayer ? and Esther, after her life of trouble and strife, what
would she be without prayer? It is our consolation.”

“IT think one should choose one’s company for prayer as
for everything else. Besides, what do you get out of it?
Miracles don’t happen nowadays.”

“ You're still young, Arthur, and you cannot feel the want
of prayer as we do—two old women living in this lonely house.
As age and solitude overtake us, the realities of life float away
and we become more and more sensible to the mystery which
surrounds us. And our Lord Jesus Christ gave us love and
prayer so that we might see a little further.”

An expression of great beauty came upon her face—that
unconscious resignation which, like the twilight, hallows and
transforms. In such moments the humblest hearts are at one
with nature, and speak out of the eternal wisdom of things.
So even this common racing man was touched, and he
said:

“ I’m sorry if I said anything to hurt your religious feelings.”

Mrs. Barfield did not answer.

“Do you not accept my apologies, mother ?”

““ My dear boy, what do I care for your apologies ; what
are they to me? All I think of now is your conversion to
Christ. Nothing else matters. I shall always pray for that.”

“You may have whom you like up here; I don’t mind if

AA

376

it makes you happy. I’m ashamed of myself. Don’t let’s
say any more about it. I’m only down for the day. I’m
going home to-morrow.”

“ Home, Arthur! this is your home. I can’t bear to hear
you speak of any other place as your home.”

“‘ Well, mother, then I shall say that I’m gding back to
business to-morrow.”

Mrs. Barfield sighed.

CHAPTER XLVI

Days, weeks, months passed away, and the two women came
to live more and more like friends and less like mistress and
maid. Not that Esther ever failed to use the respectful
‘‘ ma’am ”’ when she addressed her mistress, nor did they ever
sit down to a meal at the same table. But these slight social
distinctions, which habit naturally preserved, and which it
would have been disagreeable to both to forgo, were no
check on the intimacy of their companionship. In the evening
they sat in the library sewing, or Mrs. Barfield read aloud, or
they talked of their sons. On Sundays they had their meet-
ings. The folk came from quite a distance, and sometimes
as many as five-and-twenty knelt round the deal table in the
drawing-room. and Esther felt that these days were the
happiest of her life. She was content in the peaceful present,
and she knew that Mrs. Barfield would not leave her unpro-
vided for. She was almost free from anxiety. But Jack did
not seem to be able to obtain regular employment in London,
so the sight of his handwriting made her tremble, and she
sometimes did not show the letter to Mrs. Barfield for some
hours after.

One Sunday morning, after meeting, as the two women were
going for their walk up the hill, Esther said:

“T’ve a letter from my boy, ma’am. I hope it is to tell
me that he’s got back to work.”

377

“T’m afraid I shan’t be able to read it, Esther. I haven’t
my glasses with me.”

“It don’t matter, ma’am—it’ll keep.”

“ Give it to me—his writing is large and legible. I think
I can read it. ‘ My dear mother, the place I told you of in
my last letter was given away, so I must go on in the toy-shop
till something better turns up. I only get six shillings a week
and my tea, and can’t quite manage on that.’ Then some-
thing—something—‘ pay three and sixpence a week ’—
something— bed ’—something—something.”

““T know, ma’am ; he shares a bed with the eldest boy.”

“Yes, that’s it ; and he wants to know if you can help him.
“I don’t like to trouble you, mother ; but it is hard for a boy
to get his living in London.’ ”

“ But I’ve sent him all my money. I shan’t have any till
next quarter.”

“T’ll lend you some, Esther. We can’t leave the boy to
starve. He can’t live on two and sixpence a week.”

“You're very good, ma’am ; but I don’t like to take your
money. We shan’t be able to get the garden cleared this
winter.”

“We shall manage somehow, Esther. The garden must
wait. The first thing to do is to see that your boy doesn’t
want for food.”

The women resumed their walk up the hill. When they
reached the top Mrs. Barfield said :

“T haven’t heard from Mr. Arthur for months. I envy
you, Esther, those letters asking for a little money. What’s
the use of money to us except to give it to our children?
Helping others, that is the only happiness.”

At the end of the coombe, under the shaws, stood the old
red-tiled farmhouse in which Mrs. Barfield had been born.
Beyond it, downlands rolled on and on, reaching halfway up
the northern sky. Mrs. Barfield was thinking of the days
when her husband used to jump off his cob and walk beside
her through those gorse patches on his way to the farmhouse.

378

She had come from the farmhouse beneath the shaws to go
to live in an Italian house sheltered by a fringe of trees. That
was her adventure. She knew it, and she turned from the
view of the downs to the view of the sea. The plantations
of Woodview touched the horizon, then the line dipped, and
between the top branches of a row of elms appéared the roofs
of the town. Over a long spider-legged bridge a train
wriggled like a snake, the bleak river flowed into the harbour,
and the shingle banks saved the low land from inundation.
Then the train passed behind the square, dogmatic tower of
the village church. Her husband lay beneath the chancel ;
her father, mother, all her relations, lay in the churchyard,
and she would go there in a few years. Upon this downland
all her life had been passed, all her life except the few months
she had spent by her daughter’s bedside in Egypt. She came
from that coombe, from that farmhouse beneath the shaws,
and only crossed the down.

And this barren landscape meant as much to Esther as to
her mistress. It was on these downs that she had walked
with William. He was born and bred on these downs; but
he lay far away in Brompton Cemetery ; it was she who had
come back! and in her simple way she too wondered at the
sadness of destiny.

As they descended the hill Mrs. Barfield asked Esther if
she ever heard of Fred Parsons.

“No, ma’am, I don’t know what’s become of him.”

“And if you were to meet him again, would you care to
marry him ?”

“Marry and begin life over again! All the worry and
bother over again! Why should I marry ?—all I live for now
is to see my boy settled in life.”

The women walked on in silence, passing by long ruins of
stables, coach-houses, granaries, rick-yards—all in ruin and
decay. The women paused and went towards the garden ;
and removing some pieces of the broken gate they entered a
miniature wilderness. The espalier apple-trees had dis-

379

appeared beneath climbing weeds, and long briars had shot
out from the bushes, leaving few traces of the former walks—
a damp, dismal place that the birds seemed to have abandoned.
Of the greenhouse only some broken glass and a black broken
chimney remained. “ A great elm had carried away a large
portion of the southern wall, and under the dripping trees an
aged peacock screamed for his lost mate.

“I don’t suppose that Jack will be able to find any more
paying employment this winter. We must send him six
shillings a week; that, with what he is earning, will make
twelve ; he’ll be able to live nicely on that.”

“T should think he would, indeed. But then, what about
the wages of them who was to have cleared the gardens
for us ?”

“We shan’t be able to get the whole garden cleared, but
Jim will be able to get a piece ready for us to sow some spring
vegetables—not a large piece, but enough for us. The first
thing to do will be to cut down those apple-trees. I’m afraid
we shall have to cut down that walnut ; nothing could grow
beneath it. Did anyone ever see such a mass of weed and
briar ? Yet itis only about ten years since we left Woodview,
and the garden was let run to waste. Nature does not take
long—a few years, a very few years.”

CHAPTER XLVII

Aut the winter the north wind roamed on the hills; many
trees fell in the park, and at the end of February Woodview
seemed barer and more desolate than ever ; broken branches
littered the roadway, and the tall trunks showed their wounds.
The women sat over their fire in the evening listening to the
blast, cogitating on the work that awaited them as soon as
the weather showed signs of breaking.

Mrs. Barfield had laid by a few pounds during the winter ;
and the day that Jim cleared out the first piece of espalier

380

trees she spent entirely. in the garden, hardly able to take her
eyes off him. But the pleasure of the day was in a measure
spoilt for her by the knowledge that on that day her son was
riding in the great steeplechase. She was full of fear for his
safety ; she did not sleep that night, and hurried down at an
early hour to the garden to ask Jim for the newspaper which
she had told him to bring her.

' “ Oh, Jim, do be quick.”

“* My pocket is torn, ma’am. Here it is.”

“ He isn’t in the first three,” said Mrs. Barfield. “ I always
know that he’s safe if he’s in the first three. We must turn to
the account of the race to see if there were any accidents.”

She turned over the paper.

© Thank God, he’s safe,” she said ; “ his horse ran fourth.”

“You worry yourself without cause, ma’am. A good rider
like him don’t meet with accidents.”

“The best riders are often killed, Esther. I never have
an easy moment when I hear he’s going to ride in these races.
Supposing one day I were to read that he was carried back
on a shutter.”

“We mustn’t let our thoughts run on such things, ma’am.
If a war was to break out to-morrow, what should Ido? His
regiment would be ordered out. It is sad to think that he
had to enlist. But, as he said, he couldn’t go on living on me
any longer. Poor boy! We must keep on working, doing
the best we can for them. There are all sorts of chances,
and we can only pray that God may spare them.”

“Yes, Esther, that’s all we can do. Work on, work on to
the end. But your boy is coming to see you to-day.”

“Yes, ma’am, he’ll be here by twelve o'clock.”

“You're luckier than I am. I wonder if I shall ever see
my boy again.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course you will. He’ll come back to you
right enough one of these days. There’s a good time coming ;
that’s what I always says. . . . And now I’ve got work to
do in the house. Are you going to stop here, or are you

381
coming in with me? It’ll do you no good standing about in
the wet clay.”

Mrs, Barfield smiled and nodded, and Esther paused at the
broken gate to watch her mistress, who stood superintending
the clearing away of ten years’ growth of weeds, as much
interested in the prospect of a few peas and cabbages as in
former days she had been in the culture of expensive flowers.
She stood on what remained of a gravel walk, the heavy clay
clinging to her boots, watching Jim piling weeds upon his
barrow. Would he be able to finish the plot of ground by
the end of the week? What should they do with that great
walnut-tree ? Nothing would grow underneath it. Jim was
afraid that he would not be able to cut it down and remove
it without help. Mrs. Barfield suggested sawing away some
of the branches, but Jim was not sure that lopping would
make much difference, for in his opinion the tree took all the
goodness out of the soil, and that while it stood they could not
expect a very great show of vegetables. Mrs. Barfield asked
if the sale of the tree trunk would indemnify her for the cost
of cutting it down. Jim paused in his work, and, leaning on
his spade, considered if there was anyone in the town, who,
for the sake of the timber, would cut the tree down and take
it away for nothing. There ought to be some such person in
town; if it came to that, Mrs. Barfield ought to receive
something for the tree. Walnut was a valuable wood, was
much used by cabinet-makers, and so on, until Mrs. Barfield
begged him to get on with his digging.

At twelve o’clock Esther and Mrs. Barfield walked out on
the lawn. A loud wind came up from the sea, and it shook
the evergreens as if it were angry with them. A rook carried
a stick to the tops of the tall tree$, and the women drew their
cloaks about them. The train passed across the vista, and the
women wondered how long it would take Jack to walk from
the station. Then another rook stooped to the edge of the
plantation, gathered a twig, and carried it away. The wind
was rough ; it caught the evergreens underneath and blew

382
them out like umbrellas; the grass had not yet begun to
grow, and the grey sea harmonised with the grey-green land.
The women waited on the windy lawn, their skirts blown
against their legs, keeping their hats on with difficulty. It
was too cold for standing still. They turned and walked a
few steps towards the house, and then looked réund.

A tall soldier came through the gate. He wore a long red
cloak, and a small cap jauntily set on the side of his close-
clipped head. Esther uttered a little exclamation, and ran
to meet him. He took his mother in his arms, kissed her, and
they walked towards Mrs. Barfield together. All was for-
gotten in the happiness of the moment—the long fight for
his life, and the possibility that any moment might declare
him to be mere food for powder and shot. She was only
conscious that she had accomplished her woman’s work—she
had brought him up to man’s estate ; and that was her suffi-
cient reward. What a fine fellow he was! She did not know
he was so handsome, and blushing with pleasure and pride
she glanced shyly at him out of the corners of her eyes as she
introduced him to her mistress.

“ This is my son, ma’am.”

Mrs. Barfield held out her hand to the young soldier.

“T have heard a great deal about you from your mother.’

“And I of you, ma’am. You’ve been very kind to my
mother. I don’t know how to thank you.”

And in silence they walked towards the house.

>

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